Lalaith Elerrina, Daughter of Valinor
by LalaithElerrina
Summary: Many things in life are uncertain. Unexpected difficulties arise; seemingly insurmountable obstacles present themselves. Since leaving Nen Hithoel Lalaith has experienced troubles she never expected. But some things in life, some few things, are certain.
1. Chapter 1

**Lalaith Elerrina-Daughter of Valinor - Chapter 1**

**September 15, 2003**  
_Submitted By Lalaith-Elerrina_

Lalaith Elerrina-Daughter of Valinor  
Chapter 1

Lalaith lay in a dark and troubled dream. It seemed that she was once again in the black gloom of Moria, hearing haunting echoes of the past. Gandalf's voice rang through the darkness as he faced the Balrog upon the Bridge of Kazad-Dûm. White light flashed as he brought his staff down, and a mighty crack, as a boom of thunder, resounded through the darkness. The stone cracked away as the Balrog stepped upon it, and toppled backward into the darkness of the abyss, its whip catching Gandalf's ankle as it disappeared into the depths.

"Fly, you fools!" Gandalf had ordered, catching vainly at the crumbled stone, the last words she had heard him speak while he was alive, and then as before, an eternity passed in an instant, and then he fell.

She saw Boromir snatch Frodo bodily up, the Hobbit kicking and crying out Gandalf's name. And she saw herself, her face white with grief and weakness, dragged back by Legolas. But the scene moved. Her dream sight flew down into the darkness of the pit into which Gandalf and the Balrog had fallen, black and sightless, but for a spot of fire illuminated in the distant depths. She could see a stream of billowing smoke streaming upward, marking the path where the Balrog fell, the source of the distant fire. And in that fire, though not of it, was silhouetted a smaller figure. A figure wielding a sword, and smiting repeated at the Balrog as the two fell. Furiously the Balrog and the figure, tiny in the furious light the demon cast off, battled as they fell, striking blows even as they were battered mercilessly against the encroaching walls of the pit.

But suddenly the sides of the narrowing chasm opened into a vast subterranean chamber. The Balrog and the being who fought it were plummeting toward the floor of the chamber, the surface undulating and sparkling beneath light that had not illuminated this vast underground cavity since the first ages of Arda.

Lalaith realized with a sudden breath, that Gandalf, for that is who he was now, she knew, was plunging toward a vast black lake of water. The water drew closer, growing brighter and brighter. And at impact, a bright light exploded within her mind, and she gasped.

"Gandalf!" She cried, jerking awake with a start. Cold air blew on her face. She was lying on her back. It was night. Evening was fading slowly in the west. She turned and suddenly wished she were back in her dream. Her wrists and ankles were tied with cords. Tight cords that cut into her skin, and chaffed her flesh, burning her wrists almost as fiercely as a lancing pain burned in her side, reminding her that she'd been struck by an arrow. But yet she was still alive? Her wondering mind demanded. She glanced down to see the broken shaft still piercing through her jerkin that was stiff and crusted over with dried blood. Beside her Merry lay, unconscious, his face, what wasn't covered in blood, was white, his breathing shallow. He had been struck on the head, for blood caked his face, dried from where it had flowed from an untreated wound on his temple.

They were lying on stiff grass, but she could see little beyond the spot of ground where she lay, between the two Hobbits.

"Ssso you're awake now, ssshe-elfff?" A voice came at her from her other side, and she turned her head to see an orc crouching near, smaller than the huge goblin men she and Boromir had battled. She could see the huge ones she remembered, beyond its shoulder, scattered among smaller orcs, like the one before her, farther away in many small groups, snapping and snarling at each other in their abominable tongue. This nearest orc had a row of rings marching down its face, tarnished and rusted, piercing grotesquely through its skin from the top of its brow, down to the end of its nose. "Awake are you?" It repeated in a sucking, hissing rasp.

Pippin lay on his side, his back to her, between her and the orc who was smiling at her in a way that drove a shiver of fear through her. She was grateful to see that he was breathing more regularly than Merry. And he was awake, for he turned his head to glance at her, and offer her a brave, but half-hearted grin.

The orc muttered, "You're alive anyway." with a sneer when she didn't answer. "If you were dead, we woulda eaten ya by now." The orc's large orange eyes grew even larger, and its smiling green lips curled back from sharp, pointed teeth. It ran a long purple tongue over its lips. "They sssay ssshe-elfff meat is essspecially sssweet. But ssssince yer not dead yet-,"

"You lay a finger on her, and I'll bite it off!" threatened Pippin bravely from where he lay, struggling against the bonds that were holding him.

At his words, the orc glanced at Pippin and laughed in a harsh, wheezing blast.

"Threaten me again, you sssqueaking rat, and I may forget my ordersss." It spat at him. "If I had my way, you'd all be dead now. Ressst while you can, little fool. You won't get thossse knotsss undone `lesss we cut `em. Curssse Uglúk and hisss Isssengardersss."

The orc glanced over his shoulder, casting a poisonous glance at the largest among the massive fighting orcs, and muttered, _Uglúk u bagronk sssha pussshdug Sssaruman-glob búbhoshhh ssskai._" The orc passed into a long angry speech in its own foul tongue that finally died away into muttering and snarling. After it grew silent, it stood, and drew closer, a hideous grin curling the corners of its mouth up, away from its fearsome teeth as a line of drool came spilling out of one side of its mouth, hung suspended from its lip for a moment, before it snapped, and dropped, landing with a heavy plop on the hard, coarse grass beside her head.

"I never ssseen a Elfff-woman thisss clossse afore." It said, bending down and snatching her face in one of its hands, lifting her partially off the ground. "You're a pretty one." The orc's hideous, lurid face leaned even closer, but suddenly, it reared back with a howl of pain, and fell back on the ground, bent double. Lalaith's eyes darted to Pippin who had inched closer while the orc had been concentrating on her, lifted his bound feet, and kicked hard, right into the spot where he knew he'd get the best results.

"_Marr vogul-shara_!" The orc's howl was loud and shill, and must have carried far, but the other orcs barely noticed. They were speaking in the harsh angry tones of their orc speech, and neither Lalaith nor Pippin could understand them, but it was plain that a quarrel had begun, and was getting hotter.

With an angry, snarling hiss, the orc reached out as if to set its claws into Pippin's face.

"Don't hurt-," Lalaith cried, only to be cut off again by another scream from the orc. It was jerking its hand back from Pippin's face, and half dragging along the Hobbit as it did. Its scream was more shrill this time than before, and sharp enough to bring a few of the other orcs' heads around. At last, with a painful howl, the orc broke free, turned, and ran, staggering back toward the larger body of orcs, cradling the hand Pippin had latched onto.

"Plegh!" Gagged Pippin, spitting something from his mouth that fell with a heavy rustle into the grass beside him. He gagged, and continued spitting hard. "That was disgusting."

"The little _worm_ bit my finger _off_!" The orc screamed, waving its maimed hand about. Its middle finger was now no more than a short stump, pulsing out black blood. "I'm gonna _kill_ it!" It snatched up a thick, curved sword within its uninjured hand, and rushed back, with the clear intent to slice it into Pippin's body, but the cursing spiteful orc had barely made it a few paces toward Pippin before the larger orc reached after it, snatched what long stringy hair was upon its head, jerked its neck sharply back, and flung it fiercely into the grass.

The large orc, whom Lalaith guessed was Uglúk, kicked the smaller orc in the side, sending it squealing liked an angry piglet, back into the jumble of orcs. "Our orders," He growled, glaring fiercely at the others as if he expected to be challenged, "are to bring the halflings back alive, and as quickly as possible."

"Not _our_ orders!" Shouted another orc angrily. It was one of the smaller ones, like the one whose finger Pippin had bitten off. And probably from the same clan. It occurred to Lalaith that these orcs were from different tribes, and they could not understand one another's orc speech. That was why they were using the common speech to speak to one another.

"Nor ours!" Shouted another orc, a skulking little orc with huge eyes, such as the orcs had in Moria. "We have come all the way from the Mines to kill and avenge our folk. I wish to kill, and then go back north. Even if we cannot kill the small ones, let us kill that she-elf! She is of no matter, and her bow killed many of our kin in the mines!"

"Are you _mad_?" Uglúk demanded. "Do you wish to lose fingers as Gratbag has? Saruman will decide her fate. As for the others, my orders are to deliver them, _alive and as captured; no spoiling_. That's my orders. No one harm the halflings. And no one harm the she-elf, not until we arrive in Isengard. Got it?"

"_My_ orders," said a voice, softer than the others, but more evil. "are that the halflings are not to be searched or plundered, and are to be taken to Lugbúrz, not Isengard. Those are _my_ orders. And as we have no certain orders concerning the she-elf, what is the harm in enjoying her savory meat now?"

"I am Uglúk. I command." The spear wielding orc growled, swinging the spear until it pointed at the speaker, an orc that stood out of Lalaith's sight. "I return to Isengard by the shortest road. And I will deliver all my prey unspoiled to Saruman of the White Hand."

"Is Saruman the master, or the Great Eye?" Said the evil voice. "We should go back at once to Lugbúrz."

"If we could cross the Great River we might." Said another voice. "But there are not enough of us to venture down the bridges."

"_I_ came across." Said the evil voice. "A winged Nazgûl awaits us north on the east bank."

"_Nazgûl?_" Pippin muttered under his breath to Lalaith. "_Didn't your cousin wash them down the river_?"

"_Nazgûl can't die_." Lalaith muttered, a sick feeling growing heavy in her gut. "_They've come back._"

"We must stick together!" Growled Uglúk. "I don't trust you little _snagaz_. You'd fly off with our prisoners, and get all the pay and praise in Lugbúrz, and leave us to foot it as best we can through the horse country."

"Aye!" Cried another voice. "We must stick together. These lands are dangerous. Full of foul rebels and brigands."

"You've got no guts outside your own sties, swine." Shouted Uglúk. "But for us, you'd all have run away. We are the fighting Uruk-Hai! We slew the great warrior. We took the prisoners. We are the servants of Saruman. We came out of Isengard, and led you here, and we shall lead you back by the way we choose. I am Uglúk. I have spoken."

"Swine, is it?" The evil voice asked, then rising in pitch, as if speaking to of the others, he cried, "How do you folk like being called swine by the muck-rakers of a dirty little wizard? Who does he think he is, setting up on his own with his filthy white badges? The folk in Lugbúrz might agree with me, Grishnákh their trusted messenger, and I Grishnákh, say this: Saruman is a dirty treacherous fool. But the Great Eye is on him."

Many loud yells in orc-speech answered him, and the ringing clash of weapons being drawn. A short, crook-legged creature with long arms that hung almost to the ground, probably Grishnákh, separated himself from the rest of the orcs, and stood, facing Uglúk. Round them were many smaller goblins. They had drawn their knives and swords, but hesitated to attack Uglúk.

"Put up your weapons!" Shouted Uglúk. "And let's have no more nonsense! We go straight west from here, and down the stair. From there, straight to the downs, then along the river to the forest. And we march day and night." Uglúk's snarling face swiveled toward Lalaith's and sneered. "And since the she-elf's legs work, she can foot it, herself. Save us the effort of carrying her."

"She's been wounded!" Pippin protested loudly. "You can't expect her to-,"

"No, it's all right, Pippin." Lalaith assured him. "I would rather run on my own, than be slung over one of their shoulders, anyway."

As she spoke, a smaller orc snatched her harshly by an ankle, and roughly severed the rope binding her ankles. Then it grabbed her by her elbow, and roughly yanked her to her feet.

Lalaith gasped as the sudden movement caused stars to dance before her eyes, and she stumbled to her knees.

"Get up!" Uglúk demanded, nudging her roughly with his foot. "Cursed, weak elf." He snatched the plait of her braid, and cruelly wrenched her upward, forcing her to rise again as several orcs looked on and laughed. Lalaith bit back a cry of pain, and shook her head, fighting to clear her vision as Uglúk shouted an order in his own vile tongue to a smaller orc that nodded and came trotting nervously to him, holding out another length of thick rope. Uglúk snatched it from the smaller creature's hands, then sent it scurrying away with a growl and curses. Lalaith flinched as Uglúk roughly snatched her bound hands and tied one end of the rope around the bindings between her wrists. He sneered as she coughed and choked at his hideous reeking breath that wafted into her face. "_Lul Gijak-Ishi._" He cursed, reverting to his own tongue, and yanking hard on the other end of the rope he held within his own hands. She stumbled, but managed to keep her feet beneath her.

Uglúk grabbed the broken shaft of the arrow in her side and twisted at it, eliciting at last, a cry of pain from her as new warm blood dripped onto the broken shaft. The orc captain caught a drop on a finger, and licked it off, a sinister grin spreading across his face as he savored the taste. "Mm." He muttered thoughtfully. "It will not come out, unless we want you to bleed to death. And when we arrive in Isengard, my lads will want your meat to be fresh."

"_Legolas_." She choked, the word bursting without her bidding, through her clenched teeth that she crushed together in an effort to hold back her sob, though her side exploded in a fire of pain. She clenched her eyes shut hard, and envisioned his face. The image that came to her mind was clear and real, almost tangible. He stood upon a ledge of rock, his eyes searching the distance, seeking something, and within her mind she heard softly, the words, "_I will find you, Lalaith._" whispered from his lips.

"What did you say?" Uglúk demanded.

Lalaith ignored his order, and turned her face down and away from him. He grabbed her jaw in the vice of his fist, and twisted her face back. Her eyes met his, and as his cruel yellow, almost serpentine eyes, probed hers, she steeled herself, and met his gaze unflinching.

"Answer me, she-elf!" Uglúk shouted, spittle flying from his lips as he raged.

"Leave her alone!" Pippin cried, scrambling with a great effort to his knees, his face angry, his teeth clenched, no visible sign of fear in him in spite of his obvious helplessness. His wrists and feet were bound, his already small stature appearing even more tiny, surrounded by massive, seething orcs.

But for some strange reason, the sight of him had an effect upon the orc captain. For Uglúk's rage faded as he turned and looked on the small, bound prisoner, and his unconscious companion beside him. With a growl of disgust, he turned away from the sight of the angry Hobbit. "Pick up those other prisoners!" He shouted. "Don't play any tricks with them! If they are not alive when we get back, someone else will die too."

A large orc seized Pippin like a sack, put its head between his tied hands, grabbed his arms and dragged them down until Pippin's face was crushed against its neck. Another treated Merry in the same way, and Lalaith watched this all, glad that Merry, at least, was unconscious for this. She glanced away, taking advantage of the small portion of freedom now allowed her, though still, she was jerked this way and that by the rope that Uglúk still held within his own iron fist. They were on the edge of a rill that seemed to look out over a sea of pale mist, and somewhere off and away, was the sound of falling water.

Nearby, an orc came running, several companions following behind it, its breathing loud and labored, and Uglúk turned, taking great interest in this group as they approached.

_Scouts._ Lalaith guessed.

"What have you discovered?" Uglúk growled.

"Only a single horseman, and he made off westwards. All's clear now." Answered the first orc, puffing hard, bent double from exhaustion, its hands on its knees.

"You fools!" Uglúk roared, backhanding the first orc hard, so that he fell roughly to the ground. "You should have shot him! He'll raise the alarm. The cursed horse breeders will hear of us by morning. Now we'll have to leg it double quick." He turned and glared hard at Lalaith. She gazed back unflinching, trying not to quaver at the intensity in the orc's ugly, angry face.

"You. Come here." He ordered, though she had no choice but to obey as he yanked on the rope he held, and she stumbled near. "Take this." He barked, snatching her by the neck as he thrust a flask between her teeth, pouring some burning liquid down her throat.

Lalaith gasped, choking and gagging as a hot fierce fire flowed, burning, through her, and suddenly her legs were no longer weak.

"Now hoof it, she-elf, and keep up!" Uglúk barked, yanking on the rope and pulling her, forcing her into a run behind him as he led his band of orcs down a narrow ravine into the misty plain below.

"_Legolas_-,"

Legolas lifted his head sharply, and glanced about, though there was little to see but the bare rock over which they traveled. Aragorn was only paces ahead, his eyes fixed upon the rock beneath their feet, searching for signs of the orcs' passing, as he had been, moments before. Gimli, his breath ragged and labored, was struggling to keep pace with the Man and Elf.

Aragorn lifted his head, seeing his expression, and demanded, "What did you hear?"

"Nothing." He said, rushing ahead of Aragorn several steps, and scanning the distant, moonlit horizon. "And yet-,"

Beneath his tunic, the necklace Galadriel had given him, seemed suddenly to grow warm against his chest, and his hand strayed to where it lay. And as his hand touched the cloth that covered the three small gems, a vision flashed in his mind of Lalaith, her hands bound, and though her face was twisted pitifully with pain, her eyes were fixed, and glaring with contempt upon a fierce orc who held a length of rope in its hands, one end tied to her bound wrists.

"_Radatha le, Lalaith_." He said, speaking aloud.

"Eh?" Gimli gasped, puffing to a stop beside him.

"I will find her." Legolas seethed softly, clenching his bow ever tighter.

"O' course you will. 'Course you will." Gimli assured him, slapping Legolas' arm as he bent momentarily over his ax, drawing in deep draughts of air. "And we'll be there with you, when you do."

"Their trail is hard to follow upon this rock." Aragorn called out. "Which way would they turn? Northward toward Isengard or Fanghorn, or southward to strike the Entwash?"

"This way." Legolas declared with sudden surety and darted forward, knowing somehow, that this, indeed was the path taken, the thoughts of his mind and heart were drawn in that direction as surely as if they were the arrows of a compass. Aragorn and Gimli followed swiftly behind him, neither questioning the Elf as they raced to keep the pace he set.

Lalaith's head dropped wearily forward and she drew to a stumbled halt as the orc in front of Uglúk, one of the massive uruks, called Lugdush, put up a fist, signaling a halt, and began sniffing at the air.

Her legs trembled beneath her as she stood, aching and burning as fiercely as the arrow wound in her side, and her lungs felt dry and raw as she pulled in fierce deep breaths. The warmth of the orc draught was long gone. She had eaten nothing in days, but she knew even if she had, it would not have stayed down. She felt sick and exhausted. How she longed to sit down and rest, if only for a few moments, but what little slack Uglúk allowed her would not permit it. How many days had she been running like this? She shook her head, and discarded the thought, for it hurt her addled brain to think. She vaguely recalled the sun rising and setting maybe three times, but she could not remember.

"'Ello, ssshe-elfff." A familiar, but detested voice hissed beside her. She did not bother to glance up, for she knew she would see Gratbag's leering green face, and she did not wish to feel any sicker than she did now. The lolloping little orc had been trailing her steps ever since she had regained consciousness and found herself a prisoner of the orcs. It seemed as if the little hunched creature was looking for an opportunity to get closer to her, but every time it drew near, Uglúk did not fail to chase it away. Nor did he fail to do so now.

"Back off, worm." He barked as the little green orc drew close, and Gratbag promptly hunched his back even further, and turned, scurrying fearfully, pathetically away.

"What is it? What do you smell?" Uglúk demanded, turning to Lugdush.

Lugdush sniffed hard at the air, before he growled, "Manflesh."

"_Legolas_." She whispered through parched lips, and a slight beam of hope lit the dark corners of her heart. Aragorn and Gimli would be with him. She turned her head, finding Pippin's face peering at her from behind the head of the orc carrying him. From the look of weary hope on his drawn little face, she could tell that he had heard, also. Merry, though, was barely aware of what was going on, only half conscious, on the back of the orc carrying him. His head, still caked with dried blood, flopped wearily to the side.

"They've picked up our trail!" Growled Uglúk with a roar, and the rest of the orcs followed suit. "Let's move!" He jerked hard on the rope tied to Lalaith's bound wrists, and she knew her momentary rest was over. "Leg it, she-elf!" He ordered, and Lalaith, fighting back a whimpered protest, forced her trembling legs, weary and burning, to run again.

"Lalaith, it'll be all right." Soothed a small consoling voice beside her, amidst the gasping and grunting of the orcs. "You'll see." Lalaith forced her eyes to glance up at Pippin, whose orc had drawn even with her, and the small Hobbit flashed her a hopeful, sympathetic grin. She did her best to return it, though she could not speak, too weary, and thirsty for breath to respond as Pippin bent his head, and caught the leaf brooch at his throat between his teeth. Her drooping eyelids opened further as with a soft tear, he ripped it loose, turned his head to the side, and spat it onto the ground. Lalaith, though her head felt unbearably heavy, turned her head to see it fall, the leaf face up, and though an orc's iron foot trod heavily over it, crushing it deeper into the ground, it was still visible. Aragorn would find it.

"_Hannad_." She muttered, too tired to bother thinking or speaking in the Common Tongue. But Pippin still seemed to have understood, for he nodded and smiled, before the orc carrying him fell back, and she lost sight of him.

"Their pace has quickened." Aragorn's voice was low, the emotion within it, unreadable. But Legolas, paces behind, and darting lightly up the side of the steep hill, could hear his words easily as the Man lifted his head from the rock he had pressed his ear against and gazed into the far distance. "They must have caught our scent." Legolas saw the concern in the Man's eyes as Aragorn turned and glanced down at him. Concern that mirrored his own. "Hurry!" Aragorn called as he leaped to his feet, and started in again at a run.

Legolas glanced over his shoulder to see Gimli struggling upward, leaning heavily on the ax he used as a Gimli should have been exhausted beyond understanding now, but he was showing a hardiness that Legolas had not expected. For though his legs were stouter and shorter, still he was keeping hard on the footsteps of his swifter companions.

"Come on, Gimli!" Legolas cried, before he darted on, flying swiftly to match pace with Aragorn.

Behind him, Gimli struggled up the steep slope, puffing hard, but still struggling stubbornly onward. "Three days and nights pursuit." He muttered to himself as he tramped along. "No food. No rest. And no sign of our quarry, but what bare rock can tell."

It was true, Legolas admitted to himself as he rushed onward. Except for the scarred scratches here and there where the orcs' iron shod feet scrapped over the bare stone, and the stems of crushed grass that even his elven eyes had difficulty finding, there had been little sign of the orcs' passing. But he knew they were on the trail as easily as if he could see them with his own eyes. He could feel her presence. Somehow. She had passed this way.

"Lalaith is on foot. She is still alive, at least."

Gimli jerked to a weary stop gulping in huge draughts of air, and leaning hard over his ax. By Aulë, this land was like a crumpled piece of parchment! No sooner did he find the bottom of a hill, than he had to make his way up yet another one! He felt sure, if it were not for Lalaith and the poor Hobbits, he would not be able to keep this pace. Summoning a portion of strength, Gimli lifted his head, and looked up at Aragorn who had spoken.

Legolas stood at Aragorn's shoulder as the human knelt over an impress in the ground that at first looked no different from the crushed turf all about it until Gimli realized that this imprint was smaller and softer at the edges than the other footprints, nor was the impress as deep. Lalaith wore soft leather boots, not the hard edged footgear of the orcs. And she was lighter. But by now, if she was being pulled along with the orcs at the pace they were keeping, with her hands undoubtedly bound, she would be exhausted, her footfalls heavy and weary. Otherwise, Gimli mused with a soft thoughtful grunt to himself, Lalaith's soft, light feet, would have made no impression at all.

"And she is weak." Aragorn stood and took another step, his eyes fixed hard upon the ground as he moved slowly. "See here-, and here. She is running, but her steps are crooked and weary, and her feet are falling heavily."

Legolas inspected the marks on the crushed earth as his gaze grew hard and his chest swelled with emotion as he hurried forward, following the marks upon the ground. "She is being _dragged_ along like baggage!" He exclaimed at last, pointing out a small scrape where her foot must have dragged along the ground some distance as if she had almost fallen, but then something had jerked her forcefully back to her feet. "_ Aeg yrch_!" He exclaimed, emotion heating his voice as he reverted to his own language. "_Thaur hîn o Morgoth. Amin dagatha pain!_"

Legolas seemed almost ready to sprint off on his own, as if he fully intended to take on the entire orc hoard himself, before Aragorn's calming hand fell upon the Elf's shoulder, and he spoke softly, "_No thala, melon nin_."

Legolas glanced at the Man, a look of questioning agony upon his face.

"_Ú-na er._" Aragorn continued quietly. "_Ú-`osto, Legolas._" He jostled the Elf's shoulder gently, before his hand fall away. "_Ú-`osto. Melon lin ú-awarthia le. Ú-awarthiam Lalaith a pheriannath_."

"It'll be all right, lad. We'll find `er." Gimli offered, for though he had understood nothing else, Gimli knew, by the look of grief on the Elf's face, that he needed reassurance.

At this, Legolas paused a long moment, and flashed a furrowed, look of weary gratitude at the Dwarf.

"Come." Aragorn said at last, and added soberly, "We must not rest while there is yet hope for them. Their tracks lead this way." He spoke these last words as he turned and darted quickly down the rocky hill. Legolas, grim faced once again, sprinted after him, and Gimli stifled a groan as he hurried behind at as quick a trot as he could muster on his tired legs, after his two friends.

Legolas kept his eyes upon the ground, following at a run, the tracks made by Lalaith's soft soled boots amongst the harder deeper imprints of the orcs' feet. The tracks, left by both Lalaith and the orcs, were easy to see, especially here. For the ground, passing through this shaded hollow between rungs of jutting rock, was moist. She was growing weaker. He could tell by the scuffed, crooked steps she left. His heart wrenched for her misery and his blood pounded thick and hot through his veins at the thought of the orcs that had her. But there was one good thing that could be had by the harried pace the orcs kept. For in their hurry, they had no time to stop and rest, and make sport of their captives. And Lalaith had more to fear from them than death. But if he could not catch them before they reached their destination-, the thought of what could happen to her filled his mind with a sick fury, and he refused to think on it. He would catch them. He had to.

Aragorn, several paces ahead of him, had dropped to one knee, to examine more closely, something upon the ground, crushed down into one of the deep prints of an orc's heavy foot. "Not idly do the leaves of Lórien fall." He breathed softly, his eyes upon something within his palm.

Legolas slowed to a stop at the Man's words and drew near, his eyes fixing upon the small leaf brooch that lay in the Man's hand. It was smaller, and surely one of the Hobbits'. He had feared for them as well, for he had seen no sign of either of the small ones, alive or dead. The orcs were probably carrying them. If so, then Lalaith would have the nearness of friends to comfort her, if nothing else.

"Then the Hobbits too, may yet be alive." He offered.

"Less than a day ahead of us." Aragorn returned, rising to his feet, and starting in again, at a run, his eyes ever upon the ground, watching the tracks that fled away over the grass as Legolas drew into a run beside him. "Come."

A deep throated dwarfish grunt met Legolas ears, and he glanced back as Gimli came, rolling past a rock, down the hill from whence they had come. He must have tripped.

"Come, Gimli! We're gaining on them!" Legolas cried over his shoulder, before he turned forward and rushed on, ever faster, on Aragorn's heels.

Ever the sturdy Dwarf he was, Gimli rose again to his feet, and followed "I'm wasted on cross-country." He hollered trotting as fast as he could force his stout legs to move. "We Dwarves are natural sprinters. Very dangerous over short distances!"

The Dwarf let out a huff of air, and rushed on, wasting no more breath on words as he fought to regain the distance between himself and the other two. The ground was steep and his legs tired as he struggled on over undulating ground, and slick rocks, drawing hard, deep breaths, and forcing his legs to move onward, ever struggling to keep up as the trail the orcs took twisted through the landscape.

Legolas could sense her, knew he was drawing ever closer, and in his eagerness, took the lead, which Aragorn willingly relinquished, for the human could sense that Legolas knew the trail as well as if he had seen their quarry pass this way in his mind. Indeed, some thought within Legolas' mind, insubstantial, like the memory of a dream, showed him the path, marked here and there by the tracks of the orcs that served to prove that his instincts were not wrong.

At last, the trail led upward, along the slick ledge of a wide, flat rock that tilted at a steep angle, the arching sides of which curved out and down toward the terrain below. And at the tip of the rock, he paused, drawing deep breaths, Aragorn beside him, to survey the grass covered land spread below, unfolding wide into the mist hazed distance pocked here and there with jutting, ragged stones, black and gray against the yellowed, gently swelling rolls of the grassy plain.

"Rohan." Aragorn muttered beside him as Gimli came to a stop beside them, thumped the haft of his ax upon the ground, and leaned, exhausted, over it.

"Home of the Horse-lords." Aragorn added between breaths. "There's something strange at work here. Some evil gives speed to these creatures. Sets its will against us."

His words settled soberly upon Legolas' mind. For Legolas had thought the same fearful words himself, though he had dared not utter them, as Aragorn had.

At this thought, Legolas darted downward, leaping off the rock, and rushing ahead as Aragorn and Gimli came on steadily behind him. As he did, the sides of the rock fell away, opening his sight to a vista even greater than what he had seen from the ledge above him.

"Legolas!" Aragorn called, as he hopped downward, from rock to rock, with Gimli trailing behind. "What do your Elf-eyes see?"

Tightening his grip upon his bow, Legolas gazed out across the land. A haze of yellow-gray dust rose into the otherwise still air, far in the distance, and beneath it, he saw the tiny pinpricks of dark, oily skinned orcs, surging tirelessly onward. They had altered their path, having arched about, heading now, in almost the opposite direction of their previous course. He sought for a glimpse of her fair skin, or the glimmer of her hair among the darker bodies, but all he caught was what might have been the small elvish cloaks of the two Hobbits, tied to the backs of two orcs. Lalaith, he prayed, was hidden somewhere in the midst of the hoard. His mind shrank from the chance that she might be lying lifeless somewhere on the vast plain before him. No. She was yet alive. He allowed himself no other thought, for if he did, his mind would sink into despair.

"The uruks turn northeast." He called out, watching the subtle shift in the dust cloud as it slowly crawled along, marking the passing of the orc hoard. And as realization dawn upon him, his smooth brow, covered in naught but a damp sheen of perspiration, furrowed with a new fear as he cried, "They're taking them to Isengard!"

"Saruman." Aragorn muttered behind him, and Legolas' heart gave a great throb in his chest.

No, not Isengard. Not Saruman. What the corrupted wizard could do to her, what tortures he would devise for her, or for the Hobbits, Legolas dared not imagine. No. He had no choice now but to reach her before the orcs found their way to Saruman's domain. For if the orcs were to take her into the black stone fortress of Orthanc, Legolas knew he would never see her alive again.

*translations*

**Orc Speech**:

Uglúk u bagronk sha pushdug Saruman-glob búbhosh skai. - I am not entirely certain, but I think it means this: _Uglúk is going to that cesspool with the prisoners of filthy Saruman, the great wizard. _That however, is only a guess, because I do not know the meanings of the words, "pushdug" and "skai".

Marr vogul-shara. - _Stupid Little-human._

Lul Gijak-Ishi. - _You have flowers in your blood._

**Sindarin**:

Radatha le. - _I will find you_.

Aeg yrch.- _Foul orcs._

Thaur hîn o Morgoth. Amin dagatha pain! - _Vile children of Morgoth. I will slay them all! _

No thala. - _Be stalwart. _

Ú-na er. -_You are not alone._

Ú-`osto. -_Do not worry._

Melon lin ú-awarthia le. -_Your friends will not forsake you._

Ú-awarthiam Lalaith a pheriannath - _We will not forsake Lalaith and the Hobbits._


	2. Chapter 2

**Lalaith Elerrina-Daughter of Valinor - Chapter 2**

**September 23, 2003**  
_Submitted By Lalaith-Elerrina_

Chapter 2

With a grunt of disgust, Uglúk shoved Lalaith hard to the ground. She fell, limp, like a doll, and hit the rough grassy earth, and there she lay, unfeeling, uncaring as the orc captain knelt at her feet and bound her ankles once again, to ensure that she did not escape. She was only glad to be granted this brief rest, however short it might be, and she lay still, and unmoving. The Hobbits, each in his turn, were flung to the ground beside her, landing with small thuds, and soft grunts as the air escaped their lungs. Merry fell nearest to her, and to her immense relief, was awake and alert, though his head was still caked with dried blood from days before.

All about them, the orcs were grumbling and gasping, clearly near the end of their strength. "We're not goin' no further, `til we've had a breather!" One of the nearest Uruks growled, gasping hard for breath.

"Get a fire going!" Uglúk ordered, and at his command, several orcs tromped into the dark shadows of the forest that ran alongside their camp.

Soon, the muted thump and crack of axes hacking at the limbs of the tall, gnarled trees that stood nearest her met her ears where she lay drinking in deep breaths.

The night was mercifully cool, and a thin, chilled mist crept from the darkness of the trees, cooling her dry, ragged lungs. Where was she? What forest was this? She was too weary to think. All she knew was that they had been running for far too long for her to know where she was anymore. She had not eaten in days, and her stomach was numb with hunger. Her side, where the cracked wooden shaft of the arrow still protruded, burned with a dull throbbing pain, and the back of her shoulder where she had been branded as an infant, ached as if it had been freshly seared with a heated iron.

"Lalaith." Merry muttered, almost too tired to move himself, "You alright?"

"_Nion cuin_." She gasped, not even bothering to lift her head from the ground. She got a mouthful of earth as she spoke, but she didn't care.

"Terribly sorry to hear it." Merry mumbled.

"Huh?" She groaned, lifting her head slightly, confused at Merry's reply, but then she managed a smile and let her head drop back heavily when she realized she had been speaking Elvish, and Merry had not understood.

"Merry!" Came Pippin's whispered voice nearby. "Lalaith!" Lalaith, listened, without bothering to lift her head, to the rustle and brush of the stiff dry grass as Pippin crawled near.

"I think," Merry said wearily, as the other Hobbit inched near, "we might have made a mistake leaving Rivendell, Pippin."

Lalaith could not help but laugh softly at this, though her body ached unmercifully, and the back of her shoulder throbbed and burned.

Beyond the harsh chopping and cracking of the orcish axes within the eaves of the forest, a low groan, deep and prolonged, followed by low resonant grumblings, began to roll eerily through the woods, as if something long unmoved for ages was at last creaking into motion. Lalaith lifted her head, her weariness all but forgotten, and saw that the Hobbits did the same. She shivered at the sound, for she had in all her years, never heard anything like it. The sound came rumbling from the deeper parts of the trees, farther back in the black shadows, beyond the edge of the forest where the orcs were hacking away at the trees' living branches. There were things alive in there, and moving. Though the orcs in their noise and business, had not noticed.

"What's making that noise?" Pippin asked softly, voicing Lalaith's yet unspoken question.

Raising himself up on his elbow as best he could with his bound hands, Merry gazed with wide eyes into the deep blackness of the forest, and murmured, "It's the trees."

"What?" Pippin whispered.

"Trees?" Lalaith added, and a shiver, though not unpleasant, trailed along her spine as a long forgotten memory skittered briefly through her mind, and vanished.

"Do you remember the Old Forest on the borders of Buckland?" Merry whispered, sudden intensity in his gaze. "Folk used to say there was something in the water that made the trees grow tall. And come _alive_."

"Alive?" Pippin and Lalaith whispered in unison.

"Trees that could whisper," Merry continued in a low awe filled voice, "talk to each other," he glanced at Lalaith and Pippin in turn, deep gravity in his eyes as he finished, "even move."

Lalaith drew a long breath into her lungs. There was something in what Merry was saying that sent another shiver along her skin. Though she'd lived for centuries longer than the Hobbits, she had never heard of such tales, and yet-,

"I'm starvin'." Grumbled one of the nearest uruks, interrupting her thoughts. "We ain't had nothin' but maggoty bread for three stinkin' days!"

"Yeah!" One of the smaller orcs agreed in a sneering, high pitched voice. It was a pale, skinny orc with huge pointed ears thrusting out of the sides of its head. "Why can't we have some meat?"

Its eyes came to rest on Lalaith and the Hobbits, and its mouth, set with sharp, wicked fangs pulled apart in a hideous grin

"What `bout them?" It sneered. "They're freshhh."

"They are not for eating." Uglúk growled threateningly, drawing near the pointed eared orc.

The little orc acted as if he had not even heard, and continued to stare hungrily at the small group of prisoners as it champed its teeth noisily together.

With an angry grunt, Uglúk reached down, and snatched a Hobbit in each hand, as well as the rope trailing away from Lalaith's bound hands, he dragged the Hobbits, each by an arm, away from the gathering crowd of hungry looking orcs, but Lalaith, who was granted no time to find her feet, found herself pulled roughly across the ground by her hands until Pippin snatched her by her elbow, and helped her scramble to her knees.

"What `bout the she-elf?" Another voice asked. The speaker was, Grishnákh and he eyed her with a look that made her stomach knot into a hard fist as he stepped forward from the crowd of scrawny, sniveling orcs. "You don't need her."

"'At'sss right." Lalaith recognized the voice of Gratbag wheezingly echoing Grishnákh. "Give usss jussst a little tassste of `er-,"

Without waiting for leave, Grishnákh added, "Oh, she looks tasty!" And started forward, the dark cave of his mouth smacking hungrily.

"Get back, scum!" Uglúk yelled, roughly shoving Grishnákh back into the line of small, hungry orcs as several of his larger uruks rushed with a growl to his side.

Fierce screeches and growls were exchanged between the two formed lines, and weapons were drawn.

"Carve `em all up!" Gratbag screeched.

"Just a mouthful!" Squealed the pointed eared orc, and drew its sword back, stepping forward, its sneering eyes fixed upon Lalaith.

Lalaith winced and ducked her head just as she heard Uglúk roar, "No!"

The air above her whistled sharply as a sword swung through, striking something suddenly, with a dull thunk. A moment later, something heavy and wet struck the elven cloak upon her back, and tumbled off onto the ground as nearby a hard thump, as of a body falling, rustled the grass.

Lalaith dared to look behind her at what had hit her, only to shudder and choke as her throat clenched tight at the sight of the severed head of the orc with the pointed ears stared unseeing, up at her, where it rested in the tall, dry grass.

"Looks like meat's back on the menu, boys." Uglúk crowed. The harsh rumble of orc voices answered him in a rough, deep throated cheer, and a crowd of orcs darted in, blocking her sight from the headless body of their comrade. Lalaith swallowed hard as the sound of tearing flesh and crunching bones assaulted her ears, and she realized they were eating their own dead.

A large uruk shoved passed her, harshly knocking her into the Hobbits as it rushed past them to get its share, leaving the small group of prisoners entirely forgotten in a tumbled heap upon the ground.

"Merry, Pippin!" She whispered excitedly, realizing there were no guards, and the attention of the orcs had turned suddenly away from them. "Let's go!"

The two Hobbits eagerly nodded their agreement, and the three of them started crawling slowly on their knees and elbows, through the tall yellow grass toward the shadowed eaves of the dark forest. Surely the orcs were too busy to notice them, Lalaith hoped within her mind. They would not realize they were gone until they were lost in the forest. Too busy they all were, eating their own-,

A foot slamming down onto Merry's back, crushing him to the ground, ended her hopeful thoughts of an easy escape.

She rolled to her back to look up into the faces of Grishnákh kneeling over them, still pinning Merry to the ground, and Gratbag who came behind him and stood over her, a long sword with a serrated edge coming to rest on her shoulder, its blade just touching the flesh of her throat. His eyes bore into hers, and she knew if she moved even slightly, Gratbag would not hesitate to slash her throat open.

"'Ello, ssshe-elfff." He hissed, the black cavity of his mouth peeling away to reveal his sharp, salivating fangs. Turning to Grishnákh who knelt over the two Hobbits, he squirted forth a high pitched, insane giggle and demanded, "Bite one o' _`isss_ fingerss offf! Shhow `_im_ how it feelsss!"

"I think I'll bite every one o' his fingers off." Grishnákh seethed, to which Gratbag released a hideous cackle.

"And what'll you do?" Grishnákh mocked, speaking now to Pippin. "Go on. Call for help. Squeal." He sneered and reached down, snatching Pippin's face, and lifting him partly up and off of the ground. "No one's gonna save you now."

No sooner had the words fallen from his mouth, but a fierce whistle came zooming out of the darkness, ending in a sudden thunk. Gratbag, to Lalaith's sudden surprise, dropped his sword with a wild high pitched squeal, and fell to the ground, grabbing furtively at his leg. Grishnákh barely had time to glance up and stare in dumb disbelief at the arrow protruding clear through Gratbag's thigh, when something heavy hit his back with a harsh thump, and Lalaith turned her surprise from Gratbag to Grishnákh, seeing the heavy bladed spearhead that had rammed itself through his chest.

Both orcs had fallen to the ground writhing, squealing in agony, no longer a danger to the three prisoners. But as the thundering approach of horse's hooves came rumbling in on the mass of orcs, Lalaith suddenly realized that a new danger was upon them. Men, mounted, and clad in armor Lalaith guessed to be that of the Rohirrim of whom she had heard tales, burst out of the darkness on two sides at once, their horses thundering into the midst of the orcs as spears and arrows flew thickly among the hoard. Swords and battle axes within the hands of the Men made quick work of those not struck down by the first volley, and suddenly the air about the three had become a melee of stamping horses' hooves, and screeching, panic stricken orcs, trying in vain to flee this way and that. In this darkness, the eyes of these Men would not be sharp enough pick out an Elf maiden and two Hobbits upon the ground, and the hooves of their trampling horses could cut their lives from them just as easily as the weapons of their enemies.

"Lalaith! Pippin!" Merry's voice cried from somewhere to her left, but the dancing, skittering feet of horses had separated her from her friends. Pippin had rolled some distance away, barely dodging the flailing hooves of a horse that had nearly come down upon his head, but she could see nothing else. Her eyes, darting about, looking for some sign of Merry, stopped upon seeing Gratbag's serrated knife lying upon the ground where he had dropped it. Somehow it had become wedged in a clump of grass, so that instead of laying flat as it should, the blade was facing upward.

Hopping to her knees, she knelt quickly over the blade, sawing at the thick rope that bound her hands. She allowed herself a quick smile as she felt the rope shredding and falling away. The cruel cutting teeth of the blade that she had feared moments before, proved usefully efficient, by making quick work of the tight, harsh rope, until at last, her hands, rough and raw though they were from being bound for so many days, were finally free, and she turned her attention quickly to her feet.

Uglúk had clearly not expected her to have her hands free, for the loop about her ankles was hastily done, and the knot loose. It was but a few seconds before her feet were free as well, and she scrambled quickly to her feet.

"Men of Rohan!" She cried, hoping to be heard above the din. But when an arrow plowed hard into the ground at her feet, sending up a spray of earth, she realized she could look for no help from these Men, allies though they were, for their mortal eyes could not distinguish her in this darkness from the orcs they had come to slay.

"Lalaith!" A cry, close at hand, came welcome to her ears, and she saw Merry with Pippin just behind, come scrambling together through the rush of screeching orcs, and the thump of horses' hooves toward her, their hands and feet free. Somehow they had gotten loose as well, she realized with a rush of joy and relief.

"Merry! Pippin! She cried breathlessly. Come, quickly! Into the trees!" She gestured wildly to them, and they darted gladly toward her. She hurried behind as they scampered toward the now welcome shadows of the forest.

But as the three dashed over the grass crushed by horses' hooves and splattered darkly with black orc bile, something from behind snatched her, pulling her to a sudden halt, and yanked her backward, almost off her feet. She turned in horror to see Gratbag, still alive, though he was stumbling heavily. His wounded leg was limp and dragging behind him, and it appeared that he had been struck a second time, for an arrow was pierced clear through his left shoulder, rendering his entire arm useless. It dangled limply at his side, but he had managed to hook his clawed right hand, short of one finger, into her empty quiver still upon her back. Grishnákh, too, though still pierced through with the hefty spear, was coming behind him in the darkness, creeping painfully along, like some horrific nightmare that refused to die.

"Your belt, belt!" Merry shrieked, as he and Pippin turned to see the terrifying reason for her delay.

Forcing her panic down, Lalaith grappled at the buckles that fastened the straps of her quiver across her chest. Slipping the belt straps loose, she flung them aside and stumbled out of his reach just as Grishnákh drew near and snatched the sharp, dirty nails of his hand at her, meaning to sink them into her leg. Gasping hard, she turned and dashed after the two Hobbits as behind her, Gratbag slammed the loose quiver to the ground and howled in rage.

The moans and shrieks of dying orcs and the pounding hooves of horses faded behind them, but still the three of them, gasping and breathless, sprinted on, ducking beneath overhanging branches, and scrambling over gnarled roots as the dark shadows of the forest closed in around them. And so rushed was their flight, that they did not notice two hunched figures, seething furiously, wounded and angry, limp heavily along the ground, unnoticed, away from the battle, and the dying remnants of their comrades as they melted after them into the shadows of the trees.

Thick clouds billowed low along the horizon, and a high white mist swept loftily across the sky. As the cool shroud of night began to draw back, allowing for the first slivers of sunlight to tinge the far edge of the world with color, a pink glow began to glimmer upon the clouds' drooping bellies. The light grew fierce and crimson as the coming sun began to blossom upward, swelling brighter, and illuminate the contours of the rock crusted plain across which the three Hunters ran with a harsh splash of blood colored light. And at last the sun itself lifted above the eastern rim of the world, a hard, red sphere, glowering through the thick misty haze.

"A red sun rises." Legolas murmured, pausing to turn and glance eastward as the others continued on. He studied the face of the angry, glaring sun as it climbed slowly into the blood red sky, and a sense of somber foreboding settled upon him as he quietly finished, "Blood has been spilled this night."

The red hue of the morning faded to gold and blue as the sun rose higher, burning away the distant mist, but his sense of apprehension did not fade. They were drawing closer to the orcs by the hour. The prints left by the passing hoard were fresher. Only hours lay between them now. But he could no longer see Lalaith's stumbling weary footprints among those left by the orcs. Had the feet of the horde simply crushed the signs of her passing, or had they at last decided she had grown too weary for them to drag along behind them any more? Such a question seared his heart. He would not allow himself to abandon the belief that she yet lived, though it seemed little more than a sliver of hope.

Ahead, now little more than a dark line of shadowy green in the distance, the forest of Fangorn stalked northwestward; still ten leagues away. Its further slopes faded into the distant blue and beyond there glimmering far away, flanked thickly by grey somber clouds, almost as if it floated upon them, sat tall Methedras, the last peak of the Misty Mountains. From out of the distant forest the Entwash flowed toward them, its stream deep and narrow, with deep cloven banks, and the orc trail turned towards it. Far and away at the edge of the thick dark green that was Fanghorn, rose a dark smoke as of a huge, smoldering fire, though Legolas could see no spark of flame, thin curling threads trailing upward into the sky.

As Aragorn, a step ahead of him, bent low to the ground studying the marks of the orcs' passing, a new noise interrupted Legolas' troubled thoughts. The vibrating drum as of many horses galloping nearer, came beating at them, shaking the very ground beneath their feet, from just over the next rise. It surprised him momentarily, for he had been so focused on the trail left by the orcs, that he had not seen them or felt the drum of their horses' hooves before now.

Aragorn too felt their approach and rose, casting a glance of concern at Legolas and Gimli. The riders who were swiftly drawing near, were most surely of Rohan, those whose lands they were now crossing. But whether they were indeed Rohirrim, the three Hunters did not yet know. And at Aragorn's beckoning, Legolas nodded, and the three dashed for the cover of a high rock to wait the coming of the riders and discover whether or not they were indeed friends.

The thundering beat of horses' hooves drew nigh to the rock beside which the three waited, and suddenly they swept up with a noise like thunder. The foremost galloped past, leading the great host behind him, a long line of mail-clad men upon swift horses, shining beneath the late morning sun.

Their horses were strong, proud looking creatures with straight, clean limbs. Their coats glistened, and their long manes and tails flowed in the wind. And their riders matched them well. Proud looking men they were, with pale flaxen hair that flowed from under their light helmets. Painted shields were slung across their cloaked backs and long swords were at their belts. In their hands were tall spears of ash, and among them, flowing outward in the air and catching the light of the sun, were banners marked with the colors of Rohan.

The host had all past, when Aragorn stood, and cried in a loud voice, "Riders of Rohan, what news from the Mark?"

With astonishing speed and skill, they checked their steeds, wheeled, and came charging round as Legolas stepped out to join Aragorn, Gimli coming behind him. Soon the three companions found themselves at the center of a tight ring of horsemen moving in a running circle, up the slope of the hill behind them and down, round and round them, with another circle beyond, both drawing ever inwards. Aragorn stood silent, and Legolas remained unmoving beside him with Gimli at his shoulder, wondering which way things would turn.

Without a word of command, the Riders halted, and a thicket of spears came to point at the companions. Then one rode forward, a tall man, taller than the rest, a spear within his hand, though as yet, he had not lowered it to bear on the three. From his helmet as a crest, a white horsetail flowed.

"What business," he demanded in a fierce and commanding tone, "does an Elf, a Man and a Dwarf have in the Riddermark?"

Silence passed. Legolas stared hard at this Man, the leader of these Riders. Beyond this ring that hemmed him in, somewhere on the vastness of the land between himself and Fangorn, Lalaith was waiting to be found. He had no time to banter words with this arrogant child.

"Speak quickly!" The Man demanded.

"Give me your name horse-master, and I shall give you mine." Spoke Gimli, his words casual, though they carried within them, a hint of a challenge.

The Man's proud eyes flashed with sudden anger as, without blinking or glancing away, he clapped his spear into the waiting fist of the rider beside him and dismounted, drawing, with challenging step, toward Gimli.

"I would cut off your head, Dwarf," he seethed through clenched teeth, "if it stood but a little higher from the ground."

Legolas had heard enough haughty threats from this whelp. Whipping an arrow from his quiver, he drew his string to his cheek. "You would be dead before your stroke fell." He seethed, heedless of the spear tips that thrust forward, and were now but scant inches from his head.

Immediately, he felt Aragorn's hand upon his bow firmly lowering his aim from the Man's unflinching face as Aragorn's disapproving eyes met his own. His fingers, with slow reluctance, eased off the string at Aragorn's glance, though his hard gaze did not cease to shoot darts at the Man.

"I am Aragorn, son of Arathorn." Aragorn said, stepping between Legolas and the Rider. "This is Gimli, son of Glóin, and Legolas, son of Thranduil of the Woodland Realm."

The Man's hard countenance did not bear any sign of acceptance with these words, at least not for Legolas, and neither did the anger in his own glare ease.

"We are friends of Rohan and of Théoden, your king." Aragorn continued, quietly yet insistently.

At these words, the first sign of softening came upon the Man's face. "Théoden no longer recognizes friend from foe." He said, the anger seeping from his voice. "Not even his own kin." He eased his helmet off his head, and the other riders took this as a sign to lift the points of their spears away from the three companions. "I am Éomer son of Éomund, and am called the Third Marshal of the Riddermark. Théoden King son of Thengel is my uncle."

These last words were spoken almost softly, and Legolas' angry gaze wavered.

"But Saruman has poisoned the mind of the king and claimed lordship over these lands." Glancing about himself and indicating to the other riders, Éomer continued, "My company are those loyal to Rohan. And for that, we are banished."

Drawing close to Aragorn, Éomer hissed, "The White Wizard is cunning. He walks here and there, they say," he continued, turning on Gimli, "as an old man hooded and cloaked." Éomer's gaze turned again upon Legolas, and his eyes, once again became edged with distrust which Legolas matched. "And everywhere, his spies slip past our nets."

"We are no spies." Aragorn insisted quietly. "We track a party of Uruk-hai westward across the plain. They have taken three of our friends captive."

For the first time, Éomer's proud sure gaze wavered. "The Uruks are destroyed. We slaughtered them during the night."

"But there were two Hobbits and an Elf-maid!" Gimli burst in anxiously. "Did you see an Elf and two Hobbits with them?"

"The Hobbits would be small. Only children to your eyes. And the maid was slender and golden haired, clad in men's garb." Aragorn said.

Éomer shifted his stance, his pensive expression sending an icy shard of fear into Legolas' heart. With a somber shake of his head, Éomer said, "We left none alive." Pointing to the tendrils of smoke Legolas had noted earlier, he said quietly, "We piled the carcasses and burned them."

These words fell as a crushing blow upon Legolas and he laid a hand heavily upon Gimli's shoulder as he felt his knees weaken under him.

"Dead?" Gimli muttered with a choke.

"No." Legolas seethed, anger suddenly overriding his grief. "You cannot say it." His eyes blazed as he surged forward, snatched Éomer by the scruff of his tunic and shook him. "You cannot say that your eyes are so dim that they cannot distinguish between the fairest of Elf-maidens and a vile _orc_! If she is dead, you have slain that which is fair beyond the reach of your thought, and only little wit could ever hope to excuse you!"

Aragorn once again stepped between the two, prying Legolas' hands away from Éomer, and forcefully shoving him backward. For a moment, Éomer's eyes blazed, and the spears of several of his companions were lowering to bear upon the Elf. But then the flame receded from Éomer's eyes and at a gesture, the spears were once again lifted away.

"She is-, your sister?" He asked, his brooding eyes bore now a reflective look.

"My betrothed." Legolas choked. He was barely aware of Gimli coming to stand near as the Dwarf clapped his arm in a consoling gesture.

"Though she is as a sister to me." Aragorn added, his eyes upon the ground.

"I am sorry." Éomer said in a voice which scarcely bore the proud, demanding tone it had before.

Glancing away, Éomer released a shrill whistle, and called, "Hasufel! Arod!" And lifted a beckoning hand to two riderless horses, still saddled and bridled, who approached at his command. The first of the horses, Hasufel, was a strong chested horse with a shining coat of dark copper. And the second, though smaller and lighter, was restive and quick footed with a coat of shimmering cream.

"May these horses bear you to better fortune than their former masters." Éomer murmured with a voice that lay heavy with regret as Arod drew near and nudged Legolas gently in the shoulder with his white, equine nose. Éomer nodded in parting. "Farewell."

Drawing his helmet once again upon his head, Éomer turned away, and with a swift motion, mounted his horse. "Look for your friends." He said, glancing down at the three companions. "But do not trust to hope." A bitter tone darkly tinged his words as he finished, "It has forsaken these lands."

Turning to his men he cried out, "We ride north!" And at that command, the mounted host moved away in a great flurry of dust and pounding hooves until they curved around a great hill of earth and rock, and were gone.

*translation*

Nion cuin - _I am alive._


	3. Chapter 3

**Lalaith Elerrina-Daughter of Valinor - Chapter 3**

**September 23, 2003**  
_Submitted By Lalaith-Elerrina_

Chapter 3

Arod's step was smooth yet gentle as the quick-footed horse surged beneath Legolas. Behind him, Gimli perched precariously upon the horse's back as Arod surged up the slope of the hill toward the smoking remains of the orcs. The smoking mass was still sending up tendrils of dark smoke into the sky that hung above the shadowed eaves of Fangorn. Arod reminded Legolas very much of Rána, his own steed he had left behind in Imladris. Probably making himself fat with too much grain, and not enough activity. A momentary smirk softened his otherwise taut face. He had chosen to leave his faithful friend in the protected vale of Imladris, rather than having him return with his companions to Mirkwood. For Legolas had planned himself to return to Imladris with Lalaith once the quest was complete. Perhaps even wed her there, if he were to be given leave by his father, and Lord Elrond.

Thinking of Lalaith brought the wave of reality crashing back upon him with merciless suddenness. And a wafting cloud of thick stinking smoke washing into his face did not help to ease the sharp pain.

They topped a hill, and there it was there before them, a black fetid hill of burnt orc corpses, still smoldering. The land about the grotesque mound was bristling with arrows. Black blood splattered the grass, and broken, abandoned weapons and helms lay scattered everywhere. Beside the putrid mound, a spear had been planted, similar to the spears wielded by Éomer and his men, and, as a gruesome trophy of their victory, had been thrust the bloody head of an uruk, its tongue lolling thick and swollen out of its sagging mouth.

"Lalaith!" He shouted, leaping to the ground before Arod had even halted. Aragorn jumped from Hasufel as well, nearly as quickly as the Elf while Gimli followed slowly, clambering clumsily down only after Arod had cantered to a stop.

"Lalaith!" Legolas cried again, darting around the charred, smoking remains, his eyes scanning the bristled battlefield wildly, almost as if he expected to see some trace of her, some proof that she was still alive. His eyes darted this way and that, following the long green edge of Fangorn before it disappeared even from his sight into the distance in both directions, seeking vainly for something of her, anything that would tell him of her fate, before he closed his eyes tightly, lowered his weary head and turned his reluctant eyes at last upon the blackened remains of their enemies.

Gimli had already set himself to the grisly chore of picking through the charred pile of the dead with his ax, nudging aside the blackened petrified remains of orcish innards in the grim hope that they might find any sign or remain of Lalaith or either of the Hobbits. Legolas stood back, unwilling to watch Gimli at his unenvied task. What would he do if the Dwarf discovered her? Legolas wondered numbly to himself. He knew now, that without evidence, he could never admit to himself that she was gone. That she had left him. But if she was found in the midst of these smoldering bodies, her once beautiful, perfect body blackened and twisted, mangled as these orcs were, what would he do? What would his recourse be if he could no longer afford the numb denial that he allowed himself now? Take his vengeance upon her captors? But they were already dead, burning in a blackened heap. They had claimed their deserved punishment. Seek retribution from the Men of Rohan? It would not be just. What they had done, had been done in innocent ignorance, defending their lands and people. No, there would be nothing for him to do. Nothing. Even his duty to the ringbearer was fulfilled. Frodo with the One Ring in his keeping, was somewhere in the wilderness beyond the Emyn Muil, each step of his feet taking him closer to Mount Doom deep within Mordor. He had Sam at his side, and Sam's ever faithful, indomitable will to strengthen him. The two Hobbits were no longer in need of his aid. Without Lalaith to live for, without the hope of life with her, the center of his dreams and his heart, his life would be utterly directionless.

Gimli paused in his work, and let out a short huff of air. Legolas stiffened, but did not look. Gimli had found something. Leaning upon his ax, and reaching down, the Dwarf sifted through a mound of black powder until his gloved fingers lay upon something black and stiff, and lifted it up, thick black flakes of ash falling away as he held it out for Aragorn's inspection.

"It's her quiver." Gimli said in a soft, somber tone.

"Legolas." Aragorn said softly, the one word speaking enough for him to understand that Gimli was not mistaken.

He turned then, slowly, and focused upon a black and fire scoured oblong thing, in the Dwarf's hand. His heart drew inward upon itself as his eyes rested upon it, denying to himself still, that what he saw could not be. But it was hers. He knew it anywhere. He could remember the day she had first shown it to him, centuries before. He come to Imladris to see her, and had barely lighted off his horse when she had come dancing to him, a maiden in the full flush of young womanhood, to show him what Elrond had gifted it to her, its once warm leather was finely embossed with plated vines trailing upward, and the figure of a songbird in flight. It had been brimming then with fresh arrows, and her new bow, as well as two knives almost identical to his own.

"_Now, you shall have to teach me all you know, my friend._" She had announced proudly, her eyes dancing with excitement. "_Even my uncle admits that I am no longer a child. I am a woman now, and no longer can you deny it, Legolas._"

"_I cannot deny it._" He had agreed readily, his heart beating hard and fast as he had gazed upon her fair form, fearful that his feelings for her might be guessed at before the time to speak them came. His eyes met hers, and he had forced a playful grin upon his face. "_Never have I been able to deny you anything, Lalaith. You know this._"

She had laughed then, her bright, silvery laugh he had always loved. And his grin had widened in return as she had come forward to embrace him.

Now, though, he had no smile upon his face as he reached out and gingerly took the quiver into his hands. The once supple leather was cracked and charred, the belt straps completely burnt away.

His legs felt suddenly weak, and he reached out to catch Gimli's shoulder, misjudged, and fell heavily onto his knees as the burnt quiver fell from his trembling hands.

Gimli watched his friend mutely, and though the Elf's grief was silent and subdued, still it was a terrible thing to see. "_Lalaith nin._" Legolas murmured, lifting his eyes to gaze into the far distance. "_Mas na le_?" His eyes studied the far blue edge of the sky as if seeking for something, but he could not see for the tears suddenly washing his eyes. He closed his eyes tightly, and bowed his head, suddenly weary beyond reckoning.

Aragorn looked with bitter sympathy upon the defeated Elf before he jerked away from the sight, and sent an orc helmet plummeting away with a fierce kick before he too dropped to his knees with a wild cry of rage and pain that rang out against the wall of trees bordering Fangorn, and echoed mockingly back at them, before it trailed out over the plain at their backs, and faded.

"We failed them." Gimli muttered, his voice a strangled croak.

Legolas shook his head, hardly able to hear anything, his mind and heart turned inward as he sought to retrieve his memories of her. The last time he had kissed her had been when they were in the Naith of Lórien, nearing Caras Galadhon. It seemed now as if it had been ages before. Since then, he had done nothing but behave like a fool. A miserable fool he had been, treating her as he had, when he learned her true origin. Why could he not have put aside the knowledge of who she was, instead of claiming that their love could never find fulfillment because she was a daughter of Valar, and not Elf-born?

He had tried once to apologize to her, that night they had camped at the edge of the river, when he had taken her to that moonlit glade of flowers and they had danced. He had wanted to kiss her then, and he would have, if Boromir had not come when he did, breaking them apart.

Boromir, the son of Denethor, Lord of Gondor, weak though he had been, had died defending her. He was gone, claiming the gift of all Men. Whatever rewards Ilúvatar sought right to bestow upon him, were now his. He had loved her too, Legolas knew now, and had told her as much. She knew Boromir's feelings for her, but did she know Legolas' feelings? She knew he loved her still, did she not? She knew he had repented of all his foolishness, didn't she? And would he ever be able to hold her once again, as he used to, to feel her quick intake of breath against him as he whispered the truth of his love into her ear? Would he ever again experience the joy of kissing her sweet, responsive mouth, knowing that the ecstasy they shared in such an embrace was only a foretaste of something yet to come, and far more beautiful?

He drew in a deep ragged sigh, unwilling to open his weary eyes yet, and face again the starkness of reality.

"A Hobbit lay here." The softly toned words finally forced his eyes open, and he glanced at Aragorn who had spoken. The human was gazing over a spot of earth where the grass had been indented, touching it softly. "And the other," he murmured, moving slightly to another patch of pressed ground. Aragorn touched another patch of ground beside it, "And here, a woman."

He sat back on his heels studying the scuffed and tattered ground, struggling to read the silent message that had been written there.

"They crawled." He continued, as he rose to his feet, and moved on, stooping low to the ground as he went. "This way."

Legolas rose now, and followed behind him, struggling to see upon the ground what Aragorn could.

"Their hands were bound." He continued as he moved on, Legolas trailing behind.

"They were separated. The Hobbits rolled over that way. The woman, crawled this way."

He moved slowly on, and paused over a spot of churned earth, and lifted from the dust a length of severed rope.

"Her bonds were cut." He exclaimed, a touch of urgency filling his voice.

"The Hobbits' too." Gimli announced paces away where he lifted a piece of the same sliced rope from out of the mashed earth.

"She was rejoined by the Hobbits here." Aragorn continued, moving further, his eyes dashing back and forth over the silent writing upon the ground. "They ran over here." He moved on, pausing only a moment to announce, "They were followed." He broke into a run toward the shadowed eaves of the forest. "Tracks lead away from the battle-," he drew to a stop at the edge of the forest and stared up into the twisted gnarled branches of trees old beyond time, "into Fangorn Forest."

"Fangorn?" Gimli breathed as beside him, Legolas peered into the shadowed gloom that smelt of green things and cool shadows, and age. "What madness drove them in there?"

"Then she is alive then? Safe?" Legolas asked breathlessly. He did not fear Fangorn as Gimli did.

"It would be my hope." Aragorn answered soberly. "But here," he indicated back at the ground, "are the tracks of two orcs. They are being followed."

"Then we shall follow them!" Boomed Gimli fiercely, brandishing his ax.

Brave words, Legolas thought, from a Dwarf who had no great love of dark forests any more than he had, for the caves of Moria. But Gimli was willing to brave the deeps of Fangorn for Lalaith's sake, and for the Hobbits.

Turning, he clapped a hand on the Dwarf's shoulder, and grinned. "Thank you, my friend."

"Pagh," Gimli grumbled gruffly, suddenly embarrassed. "Don't mention it." But he could not hide the slim grin that flashed momentarily beneath his beard. "I told you we'd find `er. And we will."

Lalaith slowed and stopped, letting her two companions run on ahead. Beyond the crooked narrow tunnel of trees they had been scampering through, she could see an open place, where a little light was piercing the branches above, and lighting, but faintly, a little ground. They could stop and rest there for a while, but she needed to pause, at least for a moment, now.

As a prisoner of the orcs, they had kept her running for days, the pace blistering even if she had not had this infernal arrow sticking out of her. And now, free at last of the orcs, she still had to run. Had she not been wounded, perhaps she would have been able to keep up with Merry and Pippin. But her strength was completely taxed. She could not go on any more. She bent low, her hands pressing hard against her knees as she struggled to breath. She did not bother wasting breath to call out to the Hobbits, for she knew they would discover her missing soon enough, and come back for her.

Glancing down at the broken shaft of the arrow, still sticking out of her, she grumbled in frustration. She could feel it inside her every time she moved. And she would have to try to take it out sooner or later, but she was not sure if she dared. Uglúk had said she would bleed to death if it was pulled out. And the orc had probably been right, at least if they had not bandages to halt the bleeding. And they did not have anything but the clothes on their backs, and their elven cloaks. No food or weapons, and even her quiver was gone now.

Her momentary rest having restored some of her strength, she straightened, and started in a walk after the Hobbits. A rustle of leaves behind her though, made her pause. The back of her shoulder twinged, but she paid it no heed. She could no longer see the Hobbits ahead of her. Had they come full circle, and end up behind her somehow?

Silly Hobbits, she thought with a smile. They had no sense of direction in these trees, the poor things had completely turned themselves around! And she began to turn to tell them so, just as a scrawny hand, all bones and green mottled skin, gripped her suddenly around the throat so tightly, that she could not even hope to scream. She was thrown roughly back into a tree, her head striking hard, and her vision dancing for a moment before her eyes came again into focus, and Gratbag's face, with Grishnákh's just behind his, came swimming into view against the gnarled twisted branches of the trees behind them. She struggled hard, scratching at Gratbag's hands, and twisting from side to side, but she had been pinned into an indented curve of the tree, giving her nowhere to go. And Gratbag had shoved her against the tree in such a way that her legs were bent under her, and she couldn't even manage a hard kick at him.

"Where are your filthy little friends?" Grishnákh demanded from over Gratbag's shoulder. The spear that had struck him back at the edge of the trees still poked through his shoulder, forcing him to favor his weight on one side.

A gurgle from her throat that would have become an angry scream if they had allowed it, was crushed into silence as Gratbag's fist gave her throat another squeeze.

"I'll go after them." Grishnákh piped. "They couldn't have strayed far." He started to shuffle away. The wooden spear that thrust clean through him, dragged along behind as he went. "Save some of her for me." He ordered as his back disappeared through the thick brush, leaving Gratbag alone with her.

"'Ello, pretty elfff." Gratbag seethed into her face once his companion was gone. "Did you misss me?"

Lalaith refused to answer, clawing fiercely against the orc's hand. Her nails were drawing blood, thick, black oily blood from the scratches on his green skin, but Gratbag hardly noticed.

"It'sss too bad I wasss wounded." He wheezed, nodding at the arrows protruding from his body where his left arm hung limp, and his leg where an arrow still poked through. "Then it would'a been easssier to have a little sssport with you before I atecha."

Knowing what he alluded too, Lalaith struggled harder, though she knew his grip was too strong, even with only one good hand. Gratbag grinned, thin green lips peeling back to show his crooked slime covered fangs as his face oozing rancid breath, drew closer to hers.

She pressed her head back against the tree as far as she could go, scratching harder at his hand. But-, as Gratbag drew closer, his wounded leg dragged along with him, and a desperate idea formed in her mind. She couldn't manage a hard kick, the way he had twisted her, but a small kick, she might managed, and if she aimed her foot just right-, she lifted one foot, and brought it down with a paltry thump onto the arrow still protruding from the orc's leg. And though weak and pathetic, when it would have been otherwise useless, it wrenched a hideous scream of pain from the orc, and he stumbled backward, cursing her in the black speech.

At this, Lalaith thrust herself away from the tree, and sprinted into the shadows of the forest. She wasn't sure where she was going, though she hoped it was toward Merry and Pippin. How were they faring with Grishnákh? Had they managed to hide from him, or better yet, had they managed to kill him somehow? Oh, she hoped so. But she could not spare any more thought for them, because she could hear Gratbag crashing noisily through the trees behind her, and drawing closer. If only she were not so weary. If only she had not been wounded, perhaps she could escape. But he was drawing closer by the second, even with his wounded leg. And then suddenly, she tripped over a moss covered stone, and fell heavily upon a bed of putrid, molding moss. Gratbag was coming, a hoot of victory upon his lips. He wouldn't waste time now teasing her with torture and death. He'd simply kill her, and she had nothing-,

Time seemed to pause as she suddenly remembered the small, finger length knife Galadriel had gifted to her in Lórien. She had forgotten all about it after she had tucked it into her boot, for her favored gift had been the medallion Galadriel had given her, as well as the necklace she had given Legolas, with the instructions that they were to be kept for each other in anticipation for their wedding day. The knife was so small and its sheath so smooth, that after she had tucked it away, she had forgotten all about it. Even now, she was not sure if it was still there. Had the orcs discovered it, or had it remained hidden from them? She would not be sure until she reached for it.

She rolled to her back to face Gratbag as the orc came, scampering swiftly toward her, with a wild light in his eyes. He leaped in the air at her, his lips curled back from his teeth in a furious snarl as she snatched a hand down into the boot she had tucked her knife in, felt something metallic and cool, and drew it forth, shoving it at Gratbag's belly as his weight came crashing down on her, knocking the air out of her, his teeth straining for the exposed flesh of her throat.

And then suddenly he stiffened, a grumble of surprise faded into silence, and he lay still. With a fierce shove, Lalaith rolled his rancid, twitching body off of her, and scrambled to her feet to gaze down at the delicately carved handle of the tiny knife protruding from the orc's belly. Galadriel's foresight had just saved her life. The weight of that thought settled slowly upon her and she bent, retrieving the knife from the now dead orc's belly with a quiet reverence. She cleaned it on her breeches, then tucked it away again, back safely into her boot.

Rising, she glanced about herself. The forest was dark, and other than herself and the twisted gnarled trees about her, she could see nothing alive. Which direction had she come from? Where should she go to find the Hobbits? All she wanted now, was to get away from the wretched sight of the dead orc, and so she turned and stumbled away blindly, recriminating herself for the desire she had had minutes before, to tease Merry and Pippin for their inability to find their way through the maze of trees. The forest was faded and dark, and in this place, naught but scant green light filtered through to the ground.

"Merry, Pippin?" She called out weakly, and her voice echoed off through the trees. She paused, as her legs trembled beneath her, and put her hand against a tree, as her other hand rose to her mouth, stifling a yawn. She blinked her eyes fiercely, remembering again how utterly tired she was. Oh, she wanted so much to simply lie down and sleep! But no, she would find the Hobbits first. "Merry, Pippin, hello? Where are you? Have you escaped the orc? Hello?"

"Good gracious me, if there are orcs wandering about these trees, perhaps it would be best for you to keep your voice down." The voice at her back drew her up stiffly, and she froze. It was decidedly masculine and aged, and somehow, though she could not place why, it seemed familiar. Spinning quickly, she had to throw an arm up against the blinding light issuing from the brilliant form. A wizard, she realized, as Gandalf had been, but this one was clad all in white.

_Saruman_! She realized with a sudden grip of fright. And without knowing what other recourse she had, she balled a fist and swung wildly at him, only to have her wrist caught, mid swing, in a grip that was at the same time both gentle, and hard as steel. She could not move. Though she felt a strange sense of peace ease over her at his touch.

"You poor child, you've been injured." The White Wizard clucked in a grandfatherly tone as he noted the wooden shaft of the arrow poking through her jerkin. "It isn't a wonder that your swing was so wild. Come here, my dear. Let me help you. I will see what I can do about that wound." The wizard eased her forward, and she had no choice but to obey him as he gathered her up and lifted her easily, like a child. Her wound and her fright and the days of forced running had finally caught up to her.

"That's right." The wizard murmured warmly as her head sagged against his shoulder. "I must say, Lalaith, you have been through more than your share." The wizard spoke this and shifted her weight in his arms as if he were trying to balance her in his arms, and carry something else as well as he walked along through the forest. Oh, she noted, her brain fogging from the warmth of sleep, he was holding a staff, too. A tall white staff, its knob carved to imitate trailing, plated vines.

Her eyes were fading away to a peaceful dreamscape, but before she let herself fade completely, she looked up at the wizard, trying to distinguish his face in the bright light he gave off. She felt herself lowering, felt a bed of soft leaves beneath her, and his face at last, came into her view.

"Oh," she murmured, and sighed long. "It's you." And then her dreams, soft and warm, enveloped her, and sleep at last, claimed her.


	4. Chapter 4

**Lalaith Elerrina-Daughter of Valinor - Chapter 4**

**September 24, 2003**  
_Submitted By Lalaith-Elerrina_

Chapter 4

"Plegh." Gimli hacked, spitting out the taste of the clotted oily orc blood that he touched to his tongue with his gloved finger. "Orc blood."

"So it is dead, as that other one we found." Aragorn murmured, his roving eyes casting away, and finding at last the rest of the second dead orc, not far from the blood splashed leaf. Its flattened remains were pressed messily into a great dent in the moist ground almost as if some massive being had crushed its full weight upon the orc.

"This is a good sign." Legolas breathed softly, the relief evident in his voice. "They are dead, and there are no signs that Lalaith or the Hobbits were injured."

"There are no signs of them _at all_." Gimli huffed nervously behind him as the three Hunters scrambled over a rough trail, and hoped over a narrow, trickling brook, Aragorn's eyes bent always toward the ground. "Lalaith's tracks _clearly_ led away from that other dead orc, but then suddenly, poof!" Gimli's free hand flew upward to illustrate the unexplained disappearance of the Elf-maiden's footprints, before he continued with his overly loud chatter, "And the Hobbits' tracks disappeared right at that deep crater where it looked as if some tree had ripped its own roots out of the ground! Which of course would be complete nonsense."

"Be silent, Gimli." Legolas murmured gently, though he allowing an indulgent smile to touch his lips. The Dwarf was clearly out of place here in these trees, not at all in his environment, as Legolas was.

"Euh?" Gimli asked, his brows raising at Legolas' words. But he conceded without argument, and ceased his nervous rambling.

Legolas could feel the life in these trees, their age, and the anger that festered within their deep, wooden hearts. But now, with the demise of the orcs, he could not but feel hopeful that Lalaith was beyond danger, though, he admitted to himself, he was as baffled as Gimli was.

"These are strange tracks." Aragorn muttered, kneeling over a deep indentation upon the mossy ground. Another, similar print dented the moist earth several paces ahead. What sort of creature made such prints upon the ground? Legolas wondered to himself. And was it friend or foe?

"The air is so close in here." Gimli grunted from behind.

"This forest is old." Legolas said, lifting his head, and gazing up into the gnarled tree branches. "Very old. Full of memory." His brow knotted as he felt the twinge upon his heart as he had before, at the hurt and anger that existed within these trees as well. "And anger." He finished quietly.

A distant moan, slow and deep, rolled boomingly through the air about them, echoed on all sides by wooden groans, soft and low, and higher, resonant creaks. Gimli huffed at the deep echoing, and snatched up his ax as if expecting a sudden attack.

"The trees are speaking to each other." Legolas exclaimed as realization dawned, and spun to look back at the Dwarf who stood, bouncing nervously upon his heels, and glancing this way and that, his ax raised.

"Gimli!" Aragorn spoke before Legolas did, gesturing at the Dwarf to lower his weapon. "Lower your ax!"

With wide eyes, Gimli carefully obeyed, and slowly, the creaking, rumbling speech of the trees faded to silence.

The close, warm air cooled somewhat as the Hunters moved on along the trail, alone, but for the trees, until something touched Legolas' mind, a premonition of a new presence, and he paused, turning toward Aragorn, several paces head.

"Aragorn, something's out there." He hissed softly in Elvish, breaking into a swift jog, and darting a short distance beyond the ranger.

"What do you see?" Aragorn whispered, also in the soft tones of Elvish, as he came quietly behind him.

"The White Wizard approaches." Legolas murmured, speaking again the common tongue, and silently nodded to the side, letting his companions understand that their foe was drawing ever closer.

As a heat at his back, he could sense the wizard's presence now. It was just as Éomer had warned them. Saruman had come.

"Do not let him speak." Aragorn muttered softly. "He will put a spell on us."

Aragorn's sword whispered with a soft metallic rasp as he drew it partly from its sheath, and the soft leather of Gimli's gloves tightened about the haft of his ax. An arrow already nocked, Legolas silently ran his fingers along the fletchings until they rested against his bowstring of Lalaith's elven hair.

"We must be quick." Aragon warned, and Legolas, in silence waited for the command to strike down the traitorous wizard, putting an end to his treachery.

When Aragorn spun, his sword at the ready, Legolas followed, his shaft flying at the heart of the blindingly white figure behind them who stood above them upon a boulder, his straight white staff planted beside him. Gimli's throwing ax was already spinning through the air, but at a gesture from the figure's staff, the ax was sent plummeting away, as was Legolas' arrow. Aragorn's sword glowed red, and he dropped it, staggering back in surprise, shielding his eyes from the bright light emitting from the personage.

"You are tracking the footsteps of an Elf-maiden, and two young Hobbits." The Wizard spoke, his voice strangely difficult to distinguish, for it sounded familiar, though Legolas was uncertain how.

"Where are they?" Aragorn asked, his hand still shielding his eyes from the shining light. Even Legolas' elven eyes could not distinguish the figure's countenance in the blinding brilliance the Wizard cast off.

"They passed this way. Not long ago, in fact." The brilliant figure nodded. "They met someone they did not expect. Does that comfort you?"

"Who are you?" Aragorn demanded of the figure, and lifting his voice further, he cried, "Show yourself!"

Slowly, the wizard stepped forward. The light slowly receded from around him, though his robes and his hair remained light-washed. Legolas tightened his jaw as his countenance at last became clear.

_Gandalf_! But it could not be! They had all seen him fall into the abyss.

Casting a glance at Gimli, Legolas could see that the Dwarf's face was aghast, his bearded jaw slack.

"It cannot be." Murmured Aragorn, giving voice to their astonishment.

Yet it was.

Legolas remembered that day, the wound in Lalaith's shoulder still seeping blood as he dragged her away, weeping and struggling, as the orcs dashed from the shadows beyond the shattered bridge where they had all seen Gandalf fall.

And now, here he was, alive, before them, only Ilúvatar and the Valar knew how, for it could only have been by their grace that such a thing could be. Bowing his head in reverence at this humbling knowledge, Legolas lowered himself to one knee, and beside him, Gimli bowed low, his beard nearly sweeping the earth at his feet.

"You fell-," Aragorn hissed, the emotion thick within his voice, edging a step nearer to Gandalf.

"Through fire." Gandalf gently added. "And water." His voice grew deep as if at a memory he did not wish to recall. "From the lowest dungeon to the highest peak, I fought with the Balrog of Morgoth. Until at last I threw down my enemy and smote his ruin upon the mountainside." Legolas lifted his head as Gandalf's voice grew softer. "Darkness took me," the Wizard continued, "and I strayed out of thought and time. Stars wheeled overhead, and every day was as long as a life age in the Earth. But it was not the end. I felt life in me again. I've been sent back. Until my task is done."

"Gandalf-," Aragorn murmured almost as if with the pleading of a child, and stepped to the wizard who had alighted down from the rock, and stood near to them now.

"Gandalf?" He queried, studying Aragorn's face with a questioning look for a moment, before he thoughtfully murmured, "Yes. That was what they used to call me." And to this, Aragorn slowly nodded. "Gandalf the Grey." Legolas slowly rose to his feet, tentatively stepping forward now, as a look of recognition came into the aged Wizard's eyes and Gandalf smiled with the old familiarity he had always possessed. "That was my name."

"Gandalf." Gimli beamed, his thick voice breaking as he spoke.

"I am Gandalf the White." He said, lifting his brows and glancing past Aragorn's shoulder, now straight into Legolas' eyes. "And I come back to you now at the turn of the tide."

Gesturing with his staff, he started in a brisk walk through the trees. "Come." He called back to the others behind him. "We shall speak as we go. Time is short."

With quick glances at each other, Legolas and the others complied, hurrying to match his swift pace.

"But come now!" Gandalf cried merrily over his shoulder. "Tell me of yourselves as we go. We are not moving so swiftly that you have no breath to tell me the tale of your journey."

At this, Aragorn took up the tale, and for a long while Gandalf said nothing and he asked no questions as the three followed him on a course leading toward the forest eaves. At last when Aragorn spoke of the death of Boromir and of his last journey upon the Great River, the old man sighed.

"You have not said all that you know or guess, Aragorn, my friend," he said quietly. "Poor Boromir! It was a sore trial for such a man: a warrior, and a lord of men. Galadriel told me that he was in peril. But he escaped in the end. I am glad. He died to save Lalaith, but in the end, she helped save him."

Gandalf paused and gave Legolas a searching glance as he said this.

"Is she well?" Legolas asked, taking Gandalf's pause as leave to speak. "Boromir said she was wounded."

"Indeed she was." Gandalf murmured. "But she is stronger than she seems. She is beyond the danger now, in the safekeeping of a very old friend of hers. One who knew her, even before you met her, Legolas Greenleaf." Gandalf placed a gentle hand on the Elf's shoulder as they walked. "It was not in vain that Boromir gave himself to save her and the Hobbits." At the furrowed brow of the Elf, Gandalf sighed, and his hand squeezed the Elf's shoulder gently. "Yes, I know. I suspected it from Elrond's Council. He loved her, too. In his way. From the time he met her, I would guess." Gandalf shrugged, "For myself, I am glad that she and the young Hobbits came with us, if only for Boromir's sake." Gandalf's hand fell lightly away, and he turned to face forward. The trees were not so thick here, and glad beams of sunlight speared here and there through the branches above them, lighting upon the ground. The edge of the forest was nearing. "But that is not the only part they have to play." He said softly as if to himself. "They were brought to Fangorn, and their coming was like the falling of small stones that starts an avalanche in the mountains. Even as we talk, I hear the first rumblings. Saruman had best not be caught away from home when the dam bursts!"

"In one thing you have not changed, dear friend," said Aragorn. "You still speak in riddles!"

"What? In riddles?" Gandalf huffed in mock offense. "No! For I was talking aloud to myself. A habit of the old. The long explanations needed by the young are wearying." He laughed, and the sound now seemed warm and kindly as the gleaming sunshine that grew ever brighter about them.

"I am no longer young even in the reckoning of Men in the Ancient Houses," said Aragorn. "Will you not open your mind more clearly to me?"

"What then should I say?" Asked Gandalf with a thoughtful look. "This in brief is how I see things at the moment, if you wish to have a piece of my mind as plain as possible. The Enemy, of course, has long known that the Ring is abroad, and that it is borne by a Hobbit. He knows now the number of our Company that set out from Rivendell, and he believes he knows the kind of each of us. But he does not yet perceive our purpose clearly. He does not know that Lalaith is the Vala child he tried to kill those many centuries ago, and _that_, for the moment, is good, for had he known, he would not have allowed his servants to let her live. He also supposes that we were all going to Minas Tirith, for that is what he would himself have done in our place. And according to his wisdom it would have been a heavy stroke against his power. Indeed he is in great fear, not knowing what mighty one may suddenly appear, wielding the Ring, and assailing him with war, seeking to cast him down and take his place. That we should wish to cast him down and have _no one_ take his place is not a thought that occurs to his mind. That we should try to destroy the Ring itself has not entered his darkest dream. In which no doubt you will see our good fortune and our hope. For imagining war, he has loosed war. If he had used all his power to guard Mordor, so that none could enter, and bent all his guile to the hunting of the Ring, then hope would have faded: Neither Ring nor bearer could have long eluded him. But now his eye gazes abroad rather than near at home; and mostly he looks to Gondor, toward Minas Tirith. Very soon his strength will fall upon it like a storm.

"He knows the messengers he sent to waylay the Company have failed again. They found not the Ring, nor have they captured any Hobbits. The Enemy has failed, so far. Thanks to Saruman, and his greed and haste. The Dark Lord in Mordor knows that two Hobbits were borne away toward Isengard against the will of his own servants, and now he fears and hates Isengard as well. Saruman does not yet know his own peril. There is much he does not know. He was so eager to lay his hands upon his prey, that he could not wait in Orthanc, and came forth to meet them. But he arrived too late. After his hoard had been slain by the Men of Rohan. He believed that all his orcs were slain on the field of battle; but he does not know whether they were bringing any prisoners or not. And he does not know of the Winged Messenger."

"Winged Messenger?" Legolas murmured, his mind darting back in time to the night on the Great River when they had battled the rapids of Sarn Gebir, when the night sky had been blotted by the evil shadow of some fearsome flying beast. "I shot at some foul beast of the air above Sarn Gebir with the bow of Lothlórien, and I felled him from the sky. What new terror is this?"

"One that you cannot slay with arrows," said Gandalf. "You only slew his steed, for the Rider was a Nazgûl, one of the nine who ride now upon winged steeds. Saruman does not know of this. Nor does he know of the Ring. He fears it may have been in the battle, and taken by the Rohirrim. What if Théoden, Lord of the Mark should come by it? That is the danger that he sees, and he has fled back to Isengard to send an assault on Rohan. And yet, there is another danger to Isengard which he does not see, close at hand. For he has forgotten Treebeard."

"Treebeard?" Legolas asked.

"A dweller of these forests." Gandalf returned with a sliver of a smile. "Slow to act in anger or calm, yet faithful of heart."

The Wizard chuckled aloud at a thought, and added, "Certainly not one to fling weapons at an old friend."

"We thought you were Saruman." Gimli muttered, and cleared his throat awkwardly.

"Indeed." Gandalf said cheerily, with a glance over his shoulder at the Dwarf. His eyes twinkled merrily. "I thought perhaps you had. You would not have been flinging axes and arrows at me, had you thought I was Lalaith." He sighed, and the sprightly tone of his voice faded. "Indeed I _am_ Saruman, one might almost say. As he should have been. But of course, I cannot blame you for your welcome of me. How could I, when I have so often counseled my friends to suspect their own hands when dealing with the enemy? Bless you, Gimli, son of Glóin!"

"But Lalaith and the Hobbits!" Legolas broke in, impatiently. "We have come far seeking them, and you seem to know where they are. Where are they now?"

"Why, with Treebeard and the Ents," said Gandalf. "Have I not said so?"

"Ents?" Queried Aragorn.

"Ents," murmured Legolas thoughtfully. "I remember hearing a legend, long ago of the ancient _Onodrim_ and their long sorrow. I was but a child then, and the legend already old. Even among the Elves they are naught but a memory. A young Elf, as Lalaith, may never have heard of them. I did not know that they walked yet in this world. But who is this Treebeard? The name is only a rendering of Fangorn in the Common Speech, yet you speak of him as if he were a person."

"And he is a friend?" piped in Gimli in a worried tone. "I thought Fangorn was dangerous."

"Ah, yes. Very dangerous!" Cried Gandalf. "And I am dangerous, as is Aragorn. And Legolas is dangerous. You are beset with dangers, Gimli. For you are dangerous yourself. Certainly the forest of Fangorn is perilous. But only to those who are too ready with fire and axes, who come, like the orcs, gnawing biting, hacking, burning! Yet Treebeard is wise and kindly nonetheless to those who merit his good will. And he will be kindly to the Hobbits, and to Lalaith. Especially Lalaith. For he made a promise to his mistress Yavanna centuries ago, concerning her." Gandalf smiled at the flicker of memory in Legolas' eyes. "Lalaith is safe with him. You know what I speak of, Prince of Mirkwood. For you looked with her into Galadriel's mirror, did you not?"

"I did." Legolas answered. "And my heart rests, knowing she is safe with him. But I still wish to hear how you were delivered from the mountaintop."

"Ah, yes." Gandalf nodded slowly. "Naked I was sent back, and I lay upon the mountaintop. The tower behind me was crumbled into dust, the ruined stair choked with burned and broken stone. I was alone, forgotten, without escape on the hard horn of the world. Faint to my ears came the gathered rumor of all lands: the springing and the dying, the song and the weeping, and the slow everlasting groan of burdened stone. And so at the last, Gwaihir the Windlord, my friend at need, who rescued me from the tower of Orthanc, found me again, and he took me up and bore me away to Lothlórien. For it was by the command of the Lady Galadriel that he come looking for me.

"Thus it was that I came to Caras Galadhon and found you gone. I tarried there in the ageless time of that land where days bring healing. Healing I found, and I was clothed in white. Counsel I gave, and counsel took. And by and by I set out by strange roads to find you, and messages I bring to some of you. To Aragorn I was bidden to say this:  
`_Where now are the Dúnedain, Elessar, Elessar?  
Why do thy kinsfolk wander afar?  
Near is the hour when the Lost should come forth,  
And the Grey Company ride from the North.  
But dark is the path appointed for thee:  
The Dead watch the road that leads to the Sea._'

To Legolas she sent this word:

`_Legolas Greenleaf long under tree  
In joy thou hast lived. Beware of the Sea!  
If thou hearest the cry of the gull on the shore,  
Thy heart shall then rest in the forest no more_.'"

Gandalf fell silent and sighed.

"Then she sent _me_ no message?" Pleaded Gimli. His usually sonorous voice seemed sad.

"What was that?" Asked Gandalf glancing back. "Your pardon, Gimli! I was pondering the meaning of the messages. But indeed she sent word to you.

"'To Gimli son of Glóin,' she said, `give his Lady's greeting. Lockbearer, wherever thou goest my thought goes with thee. But have a care to lay thine axe to the right tree!'"

"Ah!" Crowed the Dwarf, and a bright sun seemed to suddenly rise in his dampened soul. "In happy hour you have returned to us, Gandalf!" He cried, springing along like a young calf. "Since Gandalf is not Saruman, let us find a head that is right to cleave!"

"That will not be far to seek, for Saruman, in his seeking for the Ring, means to march upon Rohan," said Gandalf. "One stage of your journey is over. Another begins. War has come to Rohan. We must ride to Edoras with all speed."

As he spoke, light appeared ahead, not the soft filtered light of the trees, but bolder, and soon the trees parted and gave way, and they stood again, upon the eaves of Fangorn, blinking in the warm, unfettered light of the plain.

Hasufel and Arod waited faithfully nearby, grazing. They lifted their heads, nickered in greeting, and came cantering to greet their new masters as they appeared from the trees. Arod trotted near, and nudged Legolas gently in the shoulder. The Elf smiled. He turned to the horse, and smoothed his hand against the white neck, returning the greeting before he turned toward Gandalf, who had stepped forward away from his companions as if he were seeking something.

Gandalf's aged eyes gazed distantly out over the rolling hills, as he sent forth a high, trilling whistle that vibrated long and shill over the waves of grass.

A moment passed as wind washed silently over the plain, and then across the grasses a glad equine laugh came echoing in return to Gandalf's call. And over a far knoll came galloping a horse, a great, silver stallion, running as smoothly as a swift stream. Kingly in its bearing, its neck lifted as its mane and tail flowed about it like proud banners.

"That is one of the _Mearas_," said Legolas, stepping forward to watch the horse's approach, his voice softened with awe, "unless my eyes are cheated by some spell."

Even as he spoke, the great horse came striding up the slope towards them; as he drew near, he checked his pace then trotting gently, he came toward Gandalf, with a soft whinny.

"Shadowfax." Gandalf said with a warm smile, to which the horse nodded its proud head, cantering near, and stopped before him.

"He is the lord of all horses," Gandalf nodded his head as at a dear friend, and stepped forward to stroke the horse's neck, "and has been my friend through many dangers."

With a smile, though with gravity in his eyes, Gandalf turned, and as if addressing Shadowfax and the other horses, he said, "We go at once to Meduseld, the hall of your master, Théoden."

The horses, in understanding, bobbed their heads. "Time presses, so with your leave, my friends, we will ride. We beg you to use all the speed that you can." And with these words, Gandalf gently grasped the horse's mane, and gracefully swung himself, unaided, to Shadowfax's back.

At this, Aragorn mounted Hasufel, and Legolas swung easily upon Arod's back, then leaning down, offered Gimli an arm as the Dwarf, hesitant again to mount the horse, nevertheless clasped the Elf's forearm. He hoisted himself heavily upon the horse's rump, swayed unsteadily, and quickly clamped his arms in a fierce grip around Legolas' midsection, clenching his friend's ribs in a tight vice.

Legolas rolled his eyes, but managed a tolerant smile before he turned and glanced once again into the shadows of Fangorn, and over the green tops of the trees toward the distant peak of Methedras. A shard of worry touched his heart, but then faded. As long as she was safe, that was what mattered.

"_Im melin le, Lalaith nin_." He murmured to the soft wind that danced about them, praying to the Valar that the thought of his heart would carry to hers. "_No tirnen. A nautho o nin_."

"To Edoras!" Gandalf cried, bringing Legolas mind back to his companions.

Leaning down, Legolas patted a hand against Arod's neck. "_Noro, melon nin_." He murmured gently. And at his soft command, Arod sprang forward. Shadowfax lept forward at a word from Gandalf, and with a gentle nudge into Hasufel's side, Aragorn urged his own mount into a run.

*translations*

Amin melin le. - _I love you_.

No tirnen. - _Be careful_.

A nautho o nin. - _And think of me_.

Noro, melon nin. - _Ride, my friend_.


	5. Chapter 5

**Lalaith Elerrina-Daughter of Valinor - Chapter 5**

**September 25, 2003**  
_Submitted By Lalaith-Elerrina_

Chapter 5

"My home lies deep in the forest," a slow voice, breathy and deep, boomed above her, "near the roots of the mountain."

Lalaith sighed in the peaceful sleep of her dreams, listening to the deep soothing voice from where she lay upon what felt to be a soft bed of leaves.

She was rocking, ever so gently, as if she was being carried, and a resonant, though gentle thump followed another soft thump, in a slow steady rhythm as of something heavy walking over soft earth. It seemed familiar to her, as a voice she had heard in centuries past, or in the soft, forgotten shadows of her dreams. And though she could not place a face to the voice, she somehow knew that it was a friend. With a contented sigh, knowing she was at last safe, she shifted, snuggling deeper into the soft bed of leaves.

"Oh, look, Merry!" Came Pippin's friendly voice, also from above her. "She moved!"

Ah! Pippin! Her warm descent back into her dreams was stalled. So they had defeated the orc. They were safe, too.

Raising his voice Pippin chirped out, "Lalaith!"

"Hush, Pippin!" Merry's voice scolded. "She hasn't slept in days, and the arrow wound Gandalf fixed is still mending. Don't wake her up!"

"Ah, yes." The slow deep voice said. "Sleeping like an Enting. Let me carry her like this a while longer, for I have waited for this, many a year. You will have your chance to speak to her once we reach my home. It is safe, there."

The deep, sonorous voice sighed, and continued, "I told Gandalf I would keep you safe. And safe is where I'll keep you. The trees have grown wild and dangerous. Anger festers in their hearts. They will harm you if they can."

Gandalf. Lalaith smiled in her half-sleep. She had dreamt of Gandalf. That he had found her in the woods, and had lifted her up and carried her to a bed of leaves. That he had pulled out the broken arrow, somehow without any pain, and bound her wound. But it had only been a sweet dream, for Gandalf, she reminded herself sadly, was gone.

"There are too few of us now." The voice softly boomed above her. "Too few of us Ents left to manage them."

_Ents. Ents._ She had heard the word before. Where had she heard it? Oh, her mind was still too tired, and the soft rocking motion too soothing to allow her mind the discomfort of thinking. So instead, she snuggled ever deeper into the soft cushion of leaves, and returned to the realm of her dreams.

She woke at last, feeling deliciously rested, not sore as she would have expected from days of forced marching and no rest. And she had but to move slightly to realize she was still nestled upon a soft bed of green leaves before she slowly sat up, and looked about herself.

Her bed seemed to be perched on a large table of stone lifted up above the floor of a shallow cave, which was little more a hollowed bay, and she thought curiously, should have been dark. But on the end of the table sat two large stone vessels that seemed to be filled with water but were emitting glowing light. One shone golden, and the other green giving the air of the cave an appearance as of sunlight shining through young leaves. A gentle sheet of water came clattering down in front of the cave entrance, and as she looked beyond the softly laughing water, she could see the star littered night sky beyond, above a slope of green grass, bordered by trees.

On the right side of the cave there was what seemed to be a great bed on low legs, not more than a couple of feet high, covered deep in dry grass and bracken, and upon it lay a long, gnarled tree whose roots, it appeared had been ripped up out of the very earth. This was a strange wonder in itself, but what was most curious, was that the Hobbits sat beside it on pillows of grass. And it appeared that their attention was focused entirely on this uprooted tree, and they were _talking_ to it. Lalaith shook her head vigorously and sat up straighter. Either she had gone completely mad, or they had.

Merry was, at the moment, speaking to the thing, describing in a bright animated voice, the country of the Shire.

"It is a lovely land, with wide rolling hills-,"

"We built our houses under these, you know." Pippin interrupted cherrily.

"Yes, Pippin. Thank you." Merry scolded, then turned back to the horizontal tree and continued. "Anyway, as I was saying, it's lovely in the autumn. You'd like it there. With ripe apples ready to fall right off the trees-,"

At this, Pippin smacked his lips noisily, and at the mention of apples, Lalaith felt a rumble in her stomach, reminding her that she had eaten nothing solid, in days.

"And it doesn't get terribly hot in the summer." Merry continued, casting a glance of annoyance at Pippin.

"Or in the winter!" Pippin cut in.

"Of course it won't get hot in the winter, _Pippin_!" Merry sighed, exasperated.

"That's not what I meant!" The youngest Hobbit chirped, then continued rapidly, "I meant that in the winter, it rarely gets _bitterly_ cold. And the snow is so lovely, the way it covers the ground. And the ponds freeze over. Wonderful to slide on! And even when the north wind does get brisk, we have our lovely little Hobbit holes to tuck ourselves away in."

"Oh, and spring!" Merry cut in quickly. "You would love it in the spring! With flowers popping up everywhere, and newly turned fields-,"

"_Hm hoom._" Came a voice, an echoing voice filling the bay, and Lalaith glanced around, fully expecting to see someone nearby, a man, large and tall from the sound of the voice, until her eyes came around back on the tree, and with a sudden thump of her heart, realized that the voice had come from the _tree_ itself. "You never see any, hm, any Ents round there, do you?" The voice from the tree spoke again. "Well, not Ents, _Entwives_ I should really say. They would like your country, I think."

As it spoke, the tree stirred a little, and sat up, and Lalaith gaped. It had a face with deep set gentle looking eyes, a crooked knot of a nose, and a long beard of what seemed as moss, hanging down from what would be its chin. What Lalaith had first thought of as branches and as a split trunk, were actually long wooden arms ending in branching fingers and long gangly legs with splayed root toes.

An audible gasp burst forth from her lips, catching the attention of the Hobbits and of their tree-ish companion, who focused his large golden eyes upon her as what could have been taken as a smile curved upon a slit in its bark where its mouth would belong. She could no longer think of it as a tree or log, but what word to place with it, she was not yet certain.

"Lalaith!" Pippin cried, leaping to his feet with joy. "You're awake! Wonderful!"

"Are you thirsty?" Merry asked eagerly, bounding quickly up.

"_Hm hoom_." The tree-ish creature muttered in a contented voice, and rose slowly, hardly bending as it did, and strode near until it stood over the table upon which Lalaith was perched. It smiled down upon her as she lifted her face and studied its kindly golden eyes.

"Don't be afraid, Lalaith." Pippin cried as Merry dashed to the back of the bay, retrieved something, and then came scampering back, his small feet scuffling over the hard stone floor as he came, holding a stone bowl in his hands.

"Yes! This is Treebeard." Merry added, breathless as he hurried. "He is a friend."

"Yes, I-, I know." Lalaith murmured softly, not taking her eyes of the smiling golden eyes as the creature bent woodenly, lifted the two Hobbits and set them on the table where they promptly sat down beside her. For somehow, she did know he was a friend. Somehow, those golden smiling eyes struck a chord in her somewhere, stirring up a distant, and still forgotten memory.

"We," the creature called Treebeard boomed as Merry handed her the stone bowl filled with what looked like water, "have met before."

At this, Merry and Pippin took their turn being surprised as they looked back and forth between the tree creature and Lalaith.

"Really?" Pippin asked.

Lalaith glanced away at last from Treebeard's golden eyes, and turned her attention to the bowl, for she had had nothing to drink since the orc had forced the swallow of orc-draught down her throat days before. She had no clear memory of such a meeting as the creature had spoken, but again the words struck a chord of truth in her mind, and though she was unsure how, she knew that the creature was right. She took a sip from the bowl, and as the cool taste washed her tongue, she gulped eagerly, draining the bowl until it was gone.

The drink was like water, and yet there was some scent or savor in it that reminded her of a distant wood borne from afar by a cool breeze at night. She felt the effect of the draught immediately. Her body seemed to tingle pleasantly, and grow warm with infused energy, especially at the spot where the arrow had struck her, as if the draught's effect centered there to cure the wound.

"Really?" Pippin repeated. "You've met him before, Lalaith?"

"I believe-," she murmured quietly. "Long ago-,"

"You were but a sprout," Treebeard boomed in a slow contented tone, laying a wooden finger softly upon her shoulder, "when last I saw you. Pretty little Vala you were." His wooden face smiled contentedly as he said this, but furrowed slowly into an angry scowl as he continued speaking, his slow, breathy voice deepening. "I sought you long in my woods," he grumbled, "looking for that cursed spider. Worse than an orc, it was, _burárum_." He uttered a deep rumble of disgust.

"But-," Treebeard's voice grew tame again, and he spoke, "I was contented at last, when your uncle came to me from along the Entwash, and told me you were rescued, and you were safe in the lands of the Elves. Still-," His wooden finger lifted from where it had touched her shoulder, surprisingly gentle for such a large creature, and groped into a hollowed place in the truck of its midsection where its belly should have been. "I never could return what I promised I would. For though you were with Elves, those I take most kindly to, the ways of Ents and Elves had parted long before you came to this world. But I always hoped that someday you would return to my woods, and I could return this to you." His hand withdrew from the hollow in its belly, and extended to her two branching fingers draped with a cloth shimmering as if it had been woven from the light of the very stars themselves.

A sharp gasp caught in Lalaith's lungs as she reached tentatively for the small blanket. "I remember." She whispered, her fingers closing over the cloth, softer than the touch of a cloud. She had seen it in Galadriel's mirror, and she could also remember a distant fleeting memory, herself lying upon this very blanket in a field of waving grass, Treebeard watching her with his kindly golden eyes as Yavanna, clad in shimmering green, sat at his feet. "You promised Lady Yavanna of the Valar that you would return this to me when you found me. And you-, are an Ent."

Treebeard released a deep boom of contentment, and nodded with a smile.

Slowly, Lalaith drew the blanket to herself, and pressed her cheek against it, drinking in the smell of it. Faces flashed before her mind as she held a breath, savoring the sweet smell of eternal springtime, and the ripe tang of ever blooming flowers. Two faces she recalled the most clearly, a man's face and a woman's, and she knew they were Manwë and Varda, her parents. Her once tiny hands clung to someone's neck, her little face buried against sweet smelling, golden hair as a lullaby as beautiful and clear as the stars soothed her to sleep.

"_Nana_." She whispered beneath her breath as tears began to sting her eyes. "_Ada_."

"What is that?" Pippin asked softly, and Lalaith lifted her face from the cloud soft cloth, and glanced at her Hobbit friends who were watching her with reverence in their wide eyes.

"My blanket. From when I was a baby. From Valinor." She sniffed, and uttered a short laugh, scrunching the cloth into her lap where she sat. "I must seem so silly, crying over such a thing."

"Not at all." Merry murmured gently, and grinned. "Fancy that we should run into someone you met before you even remembered meeting him, and he had something of yours."

"It seems almost lucky now, that the orcs took us." Piped in Pippin. "They were taking us to Isengard. To Saruman. Did you know that?"

"Hm hoom." Treebeard boomed thoughtfully as a sharp light flashed deep in his otherwise golden eyes. "Saruman." He muttered, and the word did not sound favorable as he spoke it. "That reminds me. We have long to go, in the morning. And I must sleep. Where will you stand to sleep?"

"Well, we usually lie down to sleep. Like Lalaith." Said Merry.  
"Hoo, hoom!" Chortled Treebeard. "Ah, of course you do! I was forgetting that you are not young Entings." Grasping a Hobbit in each of his hands, he lifted them from the table where Lalaith still sat upon her leaf bed. He turned stiffly to carry them to the low bed he had lain upon, and set them gently upon the soft grass and fern.

"But what about you, Lalaith?" Pippin asked, settling down upon a bed of green grass. "You've slept quite a while. You can't still be sleepy."

"Well, I feel much better than before, but I am still a little tired. I think I could sleep some more. At least until morning." Settling back against her bed of leaves, she plucked one up and examined it thoughtfully. It was a soft new green, round near the stem, its smooth edge curving to a point. "This is what Legolas' name means." She could hear the wistfulness in her voice, and knew that the Hobbits would tease her, but she didn't care.

"What's that?" Merry muttered, stifling a yawn from where he had lain down upon the soft fern.

"Greenleaf." She murmured, tucking her soft blanket beneath her head, and clutching the leaf close to her heart where she could feel the gentle weight of the medallion Galadriel had given her beneath her tunic. "That is his name in the Elvish tongue."

"Mmm," muttered Pippin softly. From the murmur of his voice, he was fast growing sleepy. "Diamond from Long Cleeve came to Bilbo's party. It seems so long ago. She came with her brother all the way from Long Cleeve."

" Estella Bolger was there, too," yawned Merry. "And she was the prettiest lass on the dance floor."

"I wish we hadn't been too busy causing mischief to dance with them," muttered Pippin. "At least once."

"You'll get to dance with Diamond, Pippin," Merry said gently, "when we get back to the Shire." He sighed and rolled over, turning his back to Pippin, and soon, by their even breathing, Lalaith could tell that they were both asleep.

Lalaith looked away from the Hobbits, and lifted her eyes to the arched doorway of the bay where the waterfall fell in a constant laughing clatter. Beneath the splash of the water, Lalaith could see Treebeard standing, motionless, with his arms raised above his head. The bright stars peered out of the sky, and lit the falling water as it spilled onto his fingers and head, and dripped in hundreds of silver drops on his feet.


	6. Chapter 6

**Lalaith Elerrina-Daughter of Valinor - Chapter 6**

**September 29, 2003**

_Submitted By Lalaith-Elerrina_

Chapter 6

The waving hills of golden grass rose and fell beneath them as Arod surged tirelessly onward beside Hasufel and Shadowfax.

Legolas reached down, patting a hand against Arod's neck, damp with froth from the length and the pace of his hard run. Surely life as a horse of the Rohirrim was not an easy one. And too often, it was cut short before its time. Arod responded to the gentle touch with a lift of his head and a toss of his mane. He whickered into the wind as the riders and their mounts surged up the side of a gentle slope, and drew at last to a stop, as the great mound that was the city of Edoras appeared, rising majestically before them.

The mound was less a large hill than it was a small mountain, set upon the crags of weathered ancient rock. Houses of somber weathered wood rose up the sides of the crags to the great hall that tiredly, yet proudly adorned the crest, like a king weathered and aged by time and battle, but still strong and enduring, unbeaten. A tall picket wall of sharpened tree trunks surrounded the city, broken only by watchtowers, and the gate set within the wall.

"Edoras and the Golden Hall of Meduseld." Gandalf said as the four riders gazed upward at the rising crown of proud, enduring stone. "There dwells Théoden, king of Rohan, whose mind is overthrown." His voice grew sober, and somewhat sad as he continued, "Saruman's hold over Théoden is now very strong."

Gandalf's voice regained strength as he added, "Be careful what you say." He urged Shadowfax forward, "Do not look for welcome here."

These words brought a sobering weight to Legolas' mind as he gently nudged Arod's sides, and the horse broke into a swift canter behind Shadowfax.

The narrow hall of the king's private living quarters was dark, shadowed and cold. No torches burned in the brackets on the walls. A grieving hush had fallen over the corridors, and as Greta moved quietly along, a thin thread of a smile touched her lips.

She had not heard the news yet, but she guessed at it: Théodred was dead.

She remembered watching him coming, already half dead as his cousin Éomer carried him in. And she knew he would die in spite of Éowyn's care. And she was glad.

Théodred had never been of any use to her. There had been a time when she had thought she might be the next queen of Rohan. After all, her brother was the king's chief counselor. But Théodred had proved impossible to snare. With a wane twist of her lips, Greta remembered the last time she had spoken to him.

He had been in the stables alone, currying his own horse like a common stable hand when she had come sweeping in, silent, like a shadow.

"_Aren't you going to kiss me goodbye, Théodred_?" She had purred, drawing close and running her hand lightly along his back.

"_Get away, Greta_." He had muttered, not even bothering to turn. "_I would rather kiss a horse. They at least, are loyal to Rohan._"

"_Indeed_?" She had queried smoothly. "_Well, perhaps you will learn to love me. My brother has been speaking to your father about us_."

Théodred's back had stiffened at this, and his hand paused in its work. Greta smirked, continuing to run her fingertips over his stiffened muscles. "_You father is favorable to the idea of arranging a marriage between his son and the sister of his most trusted advisor._"

"_That man_-," Théodred had spat, turning then, his expression livid, pulling away from her touch as he pointed up at the great hall she could see through the stable doors, "_that man is not my father! Your brother has taken his mind, somehow_. _Trusted advisor! Pah_!" He spat hard upon the floor of the stable. "_Your brother is a worm_."

"_And what of my brother's sister, my prince_?" She had purred.

Glancing quickly away from her eyes, he had muttered, "_You are truly Gríma's sister. Your heart is as twisted as his is, but you are more devious. He, at least, has a hideous face to go along with his traitorous heart._"

"_Oh_." She had murmured softly. "_Are you saying you think I'm beautiful_?"

"_Get out_." he seethed slowly, turning back to his horse, "_Now. I will not be taken, as my father has been_."

"_As my lord wishes_." She said, feigning a humble curtsey as she turned and swept blithely out of the stable.

Greta stifled a laugh. And now the fool was dead! For what? A dying kingdom. Had she not been pretty enough for him? She paused at a polished mirror, and admired herself within its reflective surface. Her gown was a deep green, almost black, with a train that swept silently behind her, her sleeves long and open, exposing her smooth white hands.

Her eyes trailed upward over herself, over the slender curves of her form that had pleasured more than a few men in her life. She smirked, remembering one of them, one of the door watchmen she had had her eye on for a long while, a married man who had felt such guilt over having given in to her, that he had hung himself. She shrugged the thought away. He was of no consequence. He hadn't been very memorable, anyway.

She admired her smooth, waist length hair, black and glistening as a raven's wing, and her pale face, as exquisite as polished stone. Her eyes were searingly blue like her brother's. But unlike his, her eyes had the ability to appear soft and warm, and caring, she smirked, if she wanted them too. She gave herself one last admiring glance, then turned and continued to glide down the silent hall.

Théodred was right. She was far better at this than her brother, Gríma. The fool! She paused. She could hear his voice now, not far away, coming from within the room where Théodred had died. Éowyn had not left the room for hours. Perhaps he was speaking to her.

Greta paused beside the open door to listen. Her brother's voice was too soft to hear all but his low, hissing tone until she heard a flurry of movement, followed by Éowyn's voice, thick with emotion as she exclaimed, "Leave me alone, snake!"

"Oh, but you _are_ alone." Gríma's voice returned in a low, vicious hiss. "Who knows what you've spoken to the darkness in the bitter watches of the night, when all your life seems to shrink. The walls of your bower closing in about you. A hutch to trammel some-, _wild_ thing."

Greta smirked. She had hated Éowyn for as long as she had known her, and she rejoiced to hear that the king's niece might be living a bitter life now, with her brother banished, her cousin dead, and her uncle's mind steeped in Saruman's poison.

"So fair." Gríma continued beyond the doorway in a voice that was almost gentle. "So cold. Like a morning of pale spring still clinging to winter's chill."

A long silence passed before Éowyn voice, low and angry seethed, "Your words are poison."

A flurry of skirts told her that Éowyn was coming near, and Greta calmed herself appropriately as the king's niece came rushing through the doorway, clad in a gown of flowing white, her long hair left unbound, her fair face, lightly sprinkled with a dusting of freckles was filled with terrible grief and anger, her eyes shining with tears.

"Oh, my- my lady!" Greta cried, feigning surprise as Éowyn brushed past her, ignoring her. "What-, is wrong?"

Éowyn paused, and gave a glance to Greta over her shoulder. A cold glance, almost as if she knew her for what she was. The doubts flew through Greta's mind, but did not show on her face which had taken on the expression of a caring, long suffering friend.

"My lady." She murmured, pushing tears to her eyes that fell prettily from her black lashes onto her pale cheek. She hurried forward, and grasped Éowyn's hand. "It is your cousin. The prince. Théodred. He is-," she curved her face into an expression of terrible sorrow. "He is dead, my lady?"

"Save your tears, Greta." Éowyn grated through her trembling lips, her own tears speckling her fair cheeks as she jerked her hand away. "I do not wish to see them shed by anyone to whom Théodred meant nothing." She finished with a look of sickened disgust upon her face, "No more than any of your other men."

"My lady!" Greta cried, her voice one of shocked and sudden pain. "How can you speak thusly? You are too wise to give heed to what were naught but idle rumors. Please!"

Wordlessly, Éowyn turned and stormed away, out of her living quarters and through the Great Hall, where her uncle sat upon his throne, grey and aged before his time. She glanced at him once, as if hoping to see some sign of recognition in his face, some hint of life in him. Coming from behind her, Greta smiled at Éowyn's pathetic hopeless pleading as the king's niece turned away with a soft groan of hopelessness and darted through the great hall, flinging the doors open, and flying out upon the porch as if she were running from something. Light streamed in upon Greta, and a gentle breeze puffed in, and sifted through her dark hair.

A smirk touched Greta's face at Éowyn's obvious frustration. Though she clearly wished to be free of something, the lady had nowhere to go. She would pace about as a trapped animal for a time, and then knowing she had no other recourse, she would have to return. She could not save Rohan. Not on her own, at least. And there was no one who would ever save her.

"You are a fool." She mumbled beneath her breath to Gríma as he came slowly from behind and paused, seeing his sister standing in the hall, watching after the departed maiden. "You think you can win her with pretty words? She will always despise you."

"Silence, wench." Gríma hissed at her, grasping her arm in a pinching, painful hold.

"Does it matter? Rohan is mine. It is only a matter of time when she will be, as well."

"Is Rohan indeed _yours_?" Greta laughed bitterly, pulling her arm away. "Then I am terribly mistaken, dear brother! I thought it was Saruman's!"

At that, Gríma slapped her harshly before he took her by the throat, and sneered into her face, "Someday, Saruman with writhe beneath my heel." He finished in a bitter whisper. "And so will you."

"I think not." Greta smiled, wrenching her face away from his hold. "But it is you who will be beneath mine."

She turned away from him, and with proper humble step, slow and subdued, she walked away from him, out onto the windy porch lined with ruined, tattered flags, beneath the somber grey sky where Éowyn stood, gazing out over the empty plain as if for help that would never come.

"My lady, please." She pleaded, drawing near and touching Éowyn lightly on the wrist. She fought a sneer that was coming to her face envisioning herself pushing the king's niece over the steep ledge of stone. But with so many guards looking on, she dared not. "Surely you know how I felt about him. That he did not return my love does not lessen the pain for me, now that he is gone."

"No more of your lies, Greta." Éowyn snapped, turning quickly, her eyes flashing with angry fire. "Your brother may have claimed my uncle's mind. But you could not claim Théodred. And you will not defeat me."

Without another word, Éowyn turned away, and continued to gaze out over the vast plain. Éowyn, perhaps knew of the darkness in Greta's heart. But Greta would never admit her defeat.

Greta drew back a step, subdued, her hands clasped before her with the air of an unhappily wronged, though still faithful friend, and she followed Éowyn's gaze across the vast, wind swept plain, her eyes stopping suddenly upon a group of three horses, two white, and one a copper brown, drawing near toward the gate.

A cold fear gripped her heart. Gandalf was one of the riders. A deep, sudden terror tore at her shaking her to the center of her being, and she almost turned to dart back inside. But then she stopped, for her eyes had fallen on the rider beside Gandalf. An Elf, he appeared to be. Yes, he had the fair features, and the tipped ears that marked his race.

He had a passenger with him, a Dwarf, but her eyes did not linger long on that ugly, stunted one, and her eyes flashed hungrily back upon the Elf. His flawless face was ageless and innocent, yet the wisdom of centuries lay within his eyes, his studied, sober gaze at once both frightening and alluring. The Elf's hair was long and golden, not like the dirty, stringy straw-hair of the Rohirrim. His exquisite body was lean and strong, taut, like a drawn bow, magnificent yet deadly. She had never seen anything so beautiful. Not even Théodred could match him. He was perfect. And she wanted him.


	7. Chapter 7

**Lalaith Elerrina-Daughter of Valinor - Chapter 7**

**September 30, 2003**  
_Submitted By Lalaith-Elerrina_

The great oaken doors, carved in intricate swirls of branching vines, between the great carved and inlaid pillars of the porch, boomed open as Legolas and his companions reached the top of the great stone steps, and with the cadence of creaking leather and clapping metal, Háma, the Doorward of Théoden, for so Gandalf said his name was, appeared with a cadré of armored soldiers at his back.

At his appearance, Gandalf smiled with recognition and greeting, but the man did not return the greeting in kind, though, Legolas seemed to sense, he was not a man used to being bidden to treat guests so abruptly.

"I cannot allow you before Théoden King so armed, Gandalf Greyhame." He said briskly, and added, almost as an afterthought, "By order of-, Gríma Wormtongue."

Gandalf let out a soft sigh of air and nodded understanding before he glanced at Aragorn, then Legolas, nodding that they relinquish their weapons to the soldiers who came forward to relieve them of their weapons.

As Aragorn obligingly stripped himself of his gear, handing each weapon to the soldier who stood before him, Legolas, showing less reluctance than he felt, also surrendered his bow placing it into the hands of the armored soldier who came forth to claim it. Then, snatching his knives from his quiver as well, he watched, with veiled satisfaction, the uncertainty slide across the young man's gaze as he spun them in his hands then grasped them by the blades, holding the hafts outward for soldier to take. As he handed over his bow and the knives of the Hobbits, Gimli, beside him, with reluctance that showed clearly upon his plump, bearded face, surrendered his large double edged axe and, more slowly, his single bladed axe and his throwing hatchets. Finally, with the handing over of his arrow laden quiver, Legolas was, he realized, completely defenseless, aside from the strength of his own hands, as were Aragorn and Gimli.

Now, with their weapons in the hands of Háma's men, Gandalf looked at him with an expectant smile.

"Your staff." Háma said apologetically, nodding at the tall wizard's staff in Gandalf's hand.

"Oh," Gandalf muttered, pleading. "You would not part an old man from his walking stick?"

With a purse of his mouth, Háma reluctantly conceded on this, nodded, and turned back toward the Hall. And as he went, Gandalf fell in behind him, taking Legolas' arm as he did, as Aragorn and Gimli came behind them.

As the doors creaked open into the Hall, the smell of warm polished wood, and ancient stone washed into his face. As Háma bowed before the king, and gestured them inside, the uncertainty of the dark clad courtiers was a nearly palpable thing as they lingered like silent shadows beside the proud, bronze inlaid pillars that ran down the center of the Hall. They watched, almost like ghosts, as Legolas and his companions drew nearer toward the throne at the head of the room where the king sat, his throne backed by proud banners of crimson and azure, and green, embossed with images of horses, the symbol of Rohan, and a sign of the pride of its people that now was flagging.

The king sat bent and grey upon his throne like a withered tree, twisted and gnarled with age and disease, a shrunken, shriveled form of what he must have once been. A shadowed figure of a man sat beside him, surely this Gríma Wormtongue of whom Háma had spoken. He was clad in black furs, his own hair dark and stringy while his skin was a white, sickly looking color as his pale watery eyes stared out at them from within a sneering, distrustful face. Like a leech he seemed, capable of sucking all cheer and happiness from its victim.

As they drew further into the room, the man with a twisted smirk, leaned toward the bent form of the king and whispered with a low hiss, "My lord, Gandalf the Grey is coming."

The bronze inlaid door behind them boomed shut with an echoing finality, and Legolas could not help but glance back as the guards barred the door shut with a loud metallic clamp.

Within the shadows beyond the line of silent, dark clad courtiers, walked a group of five men. Dark shadows hung over their eyes, and ill intent reeked from them as they stalked silently along like a pack of wargs shadowing their prey.

Legolas drew his arm away from Gandalf's support, sensing he would need use of it soon, and the wizard let him go.

The pale man again leaned toward the king, and whispered, "He is a herald of woe."

"The courtesy of your hall is somewhat lessened of late, Théoden King." Gandalf called out as the four parted to stride around a shallow fire pit set within the center of the floor, and hung over with a black iron pot, cold and empty, like the lives of the people of Edoras from whom this Gríma had stolen life.

"He is not welcome." Gríma hissed to the king who grumbled in a soft, inaudible voice, and bobbed his head wearily.

"Why should I welcome you, Gandalf Stormcrow?" Théoden muttered at last, his voice cracking with weariness.

"A just question my liege." Gríma simpered, before turning and rising, fixing his cold eyes upon Gandalf, and slinking, like a serpent upon legs, toward him. "Late is the hour in which this conjurer chooses to appear."

Legolas glanced away from the cold watery eyes with disgust, and suddenly, he saw her. A woman stood watching him, half hidden in the shadowed corner, and the cold feeling stole over Legolas that she had been watching him since his entrance, overlooked, until now. She was clad in a gown that was almost black, though he could see that it was a deep green, like the ancient trees in the deeper, more sinister parts of Mirkwood where the spiders lurked. He hair was black and waist length, and her eyes were a bright, almost unnatural blue, like those of the aptly named _Wormtongue_, who stood before them. Though, Legolas noted, she was extraordinarily fair for a human woman. While her skin was pale, it was not a sickly grey, like Gríma's, but rather a smooth, unblemished ivory. She glanced demurely downward with the shyness of an unsure maiden as his eyes found hers, before rising again to meet his gaze. Her soft lips brushed with a whisper of pink, turned upward in a timid, child-like smile.

"Láthspell I name him." Gríma mocked, his pale lips curled in a sneer, drawing Legolas' attention back to him. "Ill news is an ill guest."

"Be silent." Gandalf commanded him, undaunted. "Keep your forked tongue behind your teeth. I have not passed through fire and death to bandy crooked words with a witless worm."

He lifted his staff, its entwined head inches from Gríma's suddenly startled face. In her shadowed corner, the woman visibly flinched as well.

"His staff." Gríma hissed as he scrambled backward, his watery eyes filled with terror. "I told you to take the wizard's staff!" He cried out. And as if on command, the brooding warg-pack of men came barreling at them from behind the pillars. Legolas jerked his eyes from the woman, turning his focus now upon them.

They were a filthy lot, these cruel faced Men, doubtless the minions of Gríma. And they were large, thick with bulky muscle, perhaps chosen by Gríma himself to do the dirty work he considered himself too good for. As they came scrambling toward Legolas and his companions, Gandalf ignored them altogether, and continued to advance on Théoden as if they were not there. Legolas however, could not ignore them as they rushed in. He lunged forward, blocking the nearest man from snatching hold of Gandalf, shoved him aside, and sent a fist flying into the ruffian's face that found its mark on bony flesh with a satisfying thump. The man's head snapped back and he crashed onto the floor, but he did not stay down, and there were more coming. And Gandalf still strode calmly along through their midst, drawing ever closer to Théoden.

"Théoden, son of Thengel!" Gandalf cried, seemingly oblivious to the flurry around him as Legolas knocked one of Gríma's henchmen to the floor, only to find himself blocking the swinging fist of another. He snapped his fist upward into the ruffian's jaw, sending him flailing away, falling back against a pillar, and then toppling heavily upon the stone.

Aragorn and Gimli were occupied with Gríma's obstinate henchmen as well, Aragorn beating down those coming from their right as Gimli made quick work of one coming from behind, ramming his helmeted head into the man's stomach, and knocking the air from his lungs. The man sprawled, writhing to the floor, gasping and groaning in breathless agony.

Gandalf stopped at last beneath the steps of the throne, his voice falling to a sympathetic, thoughtful tone as he said, "To long have you sat in the shadows."

Behind him, Legolas heard the scuffle of boots upon stone, and the rushed exhale of angry breath as one of Gríma's men lunged near. And without troubling to turn, he brought his arm up sharply, feeling the familiar crack of flesh against his knuckles, and then the man toppled to the ground with a groan of defeat, and lay still.

His eyes once again momentarily caught those of the dark haired woman, where she lingered, still within the shadows, whose eyes had remained fixed upon him. A cold light shone now in her eyes, as her breast rose and fell with unchecked emotion. With a slight shudder, Legolas tore his eyes away, focusing his gaze once again, upon the king.

Gríma, who had been cowering at the foot of a pillar from the beginning of the skirmish, was whining and squirming now beneath Gimli's thick boot as the Dwarf threatened in a low, grumble, "I would stay still if I were you."

"Hearken to me!" Gandalf ordered the king who had seemed to shrink impossibly smaller, his face turned from the wizard.

Reluctantly, the wizened face turned to meet Gandalf's eyes and Théoden uttered a weak grumble of malcontent.

"I release you from the spell." Gandalf murmured, stretching forth his hand, and closing his eyes as if to direct all his focus at the tortured king.

But the shriveled man simply uttered a weak laugh that grew in strength as he sat higher upon his throne. "You have no power here, Gandalf the Grey." He hissed, his voice thick with scorn as he continued to laugh mockingly.

But the laughter gave way to a startled cry as Gandalf cast aside his grey cloak, and the Golden Hall flooded with the light his bright robes cast off.

"I will draw you Saruman, as poison is drawn from a wound." Gandalf declared, advancing up the steps toward Théoden, and standing over him where he writhed within his throne.

Behind him, Legolas heard the soft clattering tread of running feet as a golden haired maiden clad in white, her fair countenance fraught with alarm, darted past him toward the king, but Aragorn stepped forward, snatched her gently by the arm, and softly commanding her, "Wait."

"If I go, Théoden dies!" The king hissed in a fierce voice that sounded too much of Saruman's tone to be otherwise.

In response, Gandalf shoved his staff toward the king, and as if by a physical force, he lurched backward.

"You did not kill me, you will not kill him." Cried Gandalf.

The gnarled, whitened face grew even more twisted as Saruman, glaring out through Théoden's eyes hissed, "Rohan is _mine_!"

"Be gone!" Gandalf commanded, the power of his staff once again shoving the tormented king back.

Seething with fury, Saruman, within Théoden, twisted about on his throne, before at last, he lunged forward with cry of fury only to be slammed back fiercely into the throne, where he sagged, as if suddenly lifeless, and for a long moment, did not move. Then, with a weary groan, arched forward, and would have tumbled to the floor, but for the maiden who pulled herself from Aragorn's hold, and rushed forward, catching the king as he fell.

He knelt there, supported by the young woman, as his glazed eyes flashed about as if he had suddenly been woken from a long nightmare, and could not at first understand that he was no longer under the threatening shadow of his fearful dreams. And as he knelt, the sickly gray tone to his skin waned and faded, and the warm color of health returned to his face. The thin white hair of his beard and beneath his crown filled with color, becoming a golden brown. And as Legolas watched, hardly daring to believe, his eyes grew clear and at last focused on the maid, whose, face was filled with bright hope, and he smiled.

"I know your face." He murmured, as if remembered the once forgotten smile of a well-loved friend. "Éowyn." He whispered, and smiled as the young woman's eyes brimmed now with happy tears. "Éowyn." He repeated softly.

Turning now, he glanced beyond the maid's shoulder, and his gaze alighted upon Gandalf.

"Gandalf!" He breathed, as if uncertain at whom he saw.

"Breath the free air again, my friend." Gandalf gently instructed him. And at this, he slowly rose, assisted by the maiden Éowyn, to his feet, and he stood at last, slowly as if it had been long since he had last stood upright. Yet now he stood, unhindered by weakness or age, tall and proud of bearing.

Legolas heard a soft brush of movement behind him, and knew that those within the hall were reverently lowering themselves to their knees in veneration of their king.

"Dark have been my dreams of late." Théoden murmured softly, glancing down at his hands, strong and straight now, though they had been withered and twisted before.

"Your fingers would remember their old strength better if they grasped your sword." Gandalf murmured slowly. And as if at a silent command, Háma drew forward to the step beneath the king, and held out the king's sheathed sword.

Slowly, his face etched with great wonder, Théoden grasped the hilt, and drew the blade forth, the scrape of the metal murmuring as it came. Lifting it up, he held it before his face as remembrance seemed to flood back into his eyes. But then he paused as if remembered something terrible, and his eyes shot away from his sword and across the room to where Gríma Wormtongue knelt, cowering beneath Gimli's careful watch. And a sudden terrible rage filled Théoden's now cleared eyes.

Legolas lowered his eyes and shook his head softly to himself as Háma, and another guard, bearing grim though satisfied expressions, flung Gríma from off the high stone porch, where he fell with a strangled cry of fear, and tumbled heavily down the long stone steps to land in a groaning, twisted heap at the bottom. So much for his hold over the king, and his privileged position, Legolas thought wryly as he and Gimli beside the lady, Éowyn, came again into the sunlight and the warm wind that whipped about them and smelled of earth and golden grass as they watched from the high ledge of the porch.

"I've only _ever_ served you, my lord!" Gríma whined, crawling backward as Théoden advanced on him, his sword clenched hard in his fist.

"You leechcraft," Théoden seethed, unmoved, "would have had me crawling on all fours like a beast!"

Send me not from your sight!" Gríma simpered, to which Théoden answered with an angry cry as he raised his sword to strike him down.

"No, my lord!" Aragorn cried, darting near from where he had stood beside Gandalf, and caught the king's hands as the blade descended. "No, my lord." He repeated, and added gently, "Let him go. Enough blood has been spilt on his account."

Gríma frowned bitterly as he scrambled to his feet, stumbling backward, safely away from the king, his watery eyes growing wide as he slowly realized his released, then turned and staggered away.

"Get out of my way!" He screamed, as he rushed through the crowd that had gathered to witness the strange spectacle as Gríma had been so roughly ejected from the Golden Hall. With an angry growl, he roughly shoved through, flinging people aside as he drove through their midst, leaving stunned silence in his wake.

"Hail, Théoden King!" Aragorn cried, standing by Théoden, as the king gazed out of the assembly, and as in a mass, the crowd lowered slowly to their knees before him. At last even Aragorn bowed.

Behind him, and still within the shadows of the Hall, he heard a soft puff of air, as a grunt of disgust, and turned his head. The woman he had noticed earlier, lurked at the edge of the doorway. The displeasure that filled her pale blue eyes was clear enough as she glared down upon Théoden.

While even the doorguards had bowed their heads in obeisance, before the king, she had not so much as lowered her eyes.

She seemed to sense his eyes upon her, for her gaze moved slowly from Théoden to him, and as her eyes met his, a strange coldness seemed to grip him. She smiled then, a slender thread of a smile that may have been taken as a timid, maidenly smile, but was clearly not, for as Théoden's voice below them softly asked, "Where is Théodred?", her smile grew into a simpering sickly smirk, that in spite of the beauty of the face it was set within, reminded Legolas chillingly, of an orc's cruel grin as she turned and flounced away, disappearing like a shadow back into the Hall.

"Where is my son?" Théoden asked again. He had turned about, and his eyes were searching about for a familiar face. A face, Legolas realized sadly, that Théoden would not see.


	8. Chapter 8

**Lalaith Elerrina-Daughter of Valinor - Chapter 8**

**October 1, 2003**  
_Submitted By Lalaith-Elerrina_

Chapter 8

Within the Golden Hall, the walls seemed to shrink inward, and the scent of death and grief lingered in the air. Aragorn and Gimli were in the Hall where supper had been set on the board, awaiting the return of Gandalf and Théoden, who still lingered at the tomb of Théodred, the king's son. But Legolas was not hungry, and wished to be alone in the company of his own thoughts for now. As the reddened sun fell slowly over the horizon and evening drew long shadows across the valley, he descended down away from the flickering torches of the Golden Hall to the stables to visit Arod.

Legolas sighed softly to himself, as he went, remembering the silent, grieving look upon the face of the king. It must be a terrible thing, he thought, for a father to have to bury his child. The grief perhaps, would fade with time, but never disappear entirely. It would linger on in Théoden, an empty space in his heart, until his own death.

He had reached the doors of the stables, but he paused a moment, and his eyes rose to the arched dome of the sky above him. Within the fading purple velvet of the sky, the first weak glimmers of starlight were appearing. He sighed to himself as he entered the warm shadows of the stable, the welcome earthy scent of horses greeting him.

He stopped at Arod's stable, and smiled as the horse whickered with recognition, tossing his mane as he pressed his nose eagerly to Legolas' hand in greeting.

"_Suilad, melon nin._" He grinned, running his hand over the horse's long white nose.

"_Ú-mado nin_!" He chuckled as Arod nipped playfully at his cloak. "_Farn aes ú-mada?_"

He and Lalaith had spoken only briefly of children before the Fellowship had departed from Imladris. She wanted their first child to be a son, she had said. "_As handsome as his father._" She had added with a light, silvery laugh, where they had been sitting together upon a stone bench beneath the softly falling leaves of gold and crimson, and surrounded by the quiet, unceasing murmur of the falls. Her arm had been linked through his, their fingers woven together as her head rested upon his shoulder.

Son or daughter, Legolas sighed to himself at the memory, it did not matter now. All he wanted, was his Lalaith beside him again. But he was being selfish, he reminded himself. For Aragorn too, pined for his own love, Arwen, from whom he had been parted far longer than Legolas and Lalaith. And Lalaith was safe now, deep within the forest of Fangorn with the Ent, Treebeard. Still, such reminders did not lessen the aching of his empty arms.

Letting his eye fall away and rest upon the sapphire within the ring upon his smallest finger, he began to sing softly to himself,

"_Im melin le, lalaith nin.  
Le na ithil nin,  
le na anor nin,  
run a annun.  
Im melin le, lalaith nin.  
Le na orë nin,  
le na elen nin,  
arda a menel.  
An le na coi nin,  
a lalaith nin.  
Im melin le._"

"You have a beautiful voice, elven lord."

Startled, Legolas spun at the feminine voice, wondering who could have come upon him so silently that even his elvish hearing had not detected her.

Before him, within in the doorway, stood the woman he had seen earlier. She stood before him now, a dark shadow blocking the light in the doorway as a slim, teasing smile played across her face. She wore a dark gown similar in color to the one she had worn before, only the sleeves and bodice of this gown hung low, exposing the smooth contours of her shoulders, and more of her soft ivory flesh than he wished to see.

He heard a soft, almost angry huff, and glanced at Shadowfax where the silver horse stood in his own pen, glancing over the door at the woman with an almost disapproving grimace on his wise, equine face.

"And yet your voice is also lonely, and sad." She breathed wistfully, her eyes dripping with sympathy. "As if you ache for someone far away."

Legolas glanced away from her, feeling the heat rush to his face. What was her purpose here? What did she want from him, and why was she speaking thusly? For not even having the familiarity of an introduction, she was being rather brazen.

At the guarded look that came upon his face at these thoughts, she laughed, drawing nearer to him. "Forgive me, my lord. Legolas is your name, yes? I am Greta. Daughter of Gálmód. Did you notice me in the Golden Hall?"

He did not answer, and instead glanced past her through the doorway where he could see the warm red light of the fading sun beyond.

"I noticed _you_, my lord. You fought Gríma's men-," a dark light burned in her eyes as her eyes traveled hungrily, from his head to his feet, and back again, "very well."

"My lady, what is your purpose here?" He asked at last, his voice low and guarded.

"My purpose?" She laughed, but the sound did not rest well on Legolas' ears. "Have you not guessed yet? I came to see you." Her eyes took on a warm, dark look as she softly murmured, "To be with you, if you desire it."

His throat felt suddenly as dry as sand, for he knew the meaning behind her words. "I think not." He ground out, and brushed past her.

"Legolas, please. Do not leave me." He froze in his steps. It was not Greta's voice that had spoken, but Lalaith's, though the words she spoke were uttered in the Common Speech.

Turning slowly, his heart gave a sudden, painful thud. Her face was no longer Greta's. The gown was the same, its dark green tone appearing black in the thickening shadows. But the rest of her, her form, her hair, her face. All were Lalaith's.

"Is this better?" She whispered, sweeping slowly nearer as the evening wind washed through the stable, and caught her golden hair brushing it about her face. And though the words were those of the speech of Men, it was Lalaith's voice. "I am now, the one whom you long more than anyone, to see." She slowly circled him, blocking again, his path toward the doorway.

Legolas closed his eyes a moment. This was not right. Something was wrong. But his brain seemed suddenly fogged and drowsy, as if his blood were saturated with the sickening poison of spider venom.

"Legolas?" She asked softly as she drew close. "Please." Her words were still being drawn forth in the choppy tones of the Common Speech, and he could not understand why she would not speak their own tongue. "Look at me. It has been so long. I have missed you so." She now drew close enough, that he could feel the heat of her nearness. Her soft breath, scented of sweet cloves, washed his face as her hands slipped into his.

Slowly, he turned to her, and opened his eyes to see Lalaith's pleading gaze beneath his own. "Stay with me." She whispered. "Be with me." Lifting her face upward, her eyes softly closed, as her lips strayed close to his, warm and full, and inviting. And he could not fathom why it felt so wrong, as Legolas slowly began to bend his head down toward hers.

Gimli uttered a happy grunt of satisfaction as he clambered up to the table across from Aragorn who was puffing calmly away at his pipe, where a plateful of meat and bread had been set out with a tall pewter mug of ale beside it.

"Where is Legolas?" Aragorn asked softly as Gimli, without delay, began the business of shoveling food into his hungry mouth.

"Eh, what's that?" He coughed, glancing up as he took a gulp of ale. "Ah, he needed some time to be alone. He was headed down toward the stables, last I saw him."

Aragorn nodded thoughtfully, toying with his pipe between two fingers, and turned to glance out the great open doors, thrown open to the evening breeze. "Elves find great peace in turning their gaze to the stars."

Gimli grunted his agreement, shoving another piece of bread into his mouth and mawing it noisily. "And he needs a bit of peace, poor lad."

He smiled through his beard and nodded as the lady Éowyn pacing the length of the room, passed the table where he sat across from Aragorn

Slender and fair faced she was, almost like a young girl, clad in a gown of twilight blue, her golden hair bound back in a circlet of gold. The noble blood of her forebearers showed proudly through her eyes even as her smile flashed over her two guests, lingering a moment longer on Aragorn before lifting to gaze up at the doorway, watching ever for the return of her uncle, and Gandalf, from Théodred's tomb. They were yet a long time in coming.

"Good lot, these horse folk." Gimli muttered, raising his glass to Éowyn who heard him and smiled, before he took a long drink that left traces dribbling down his beard. "Except for that-, ugh," he made a face, "woman, if that's what she was. Reminded me of a hungry little spider, for some reason."

"Her name is Greta. She is Gríma Wormtongue's sister." Éowyn sighed, pausing beside them. "Very like her brother, I fear."

"Ugh." Gimli muttered. "Then good riddance, I'd say, when she stopped slinking around out there on the porch, and left."

"She left?" Éowyn's smooth brow furrowed. "Where did she go?"

Gimli shrugged, and put a fist to his mouth in an unsuccessful attempt to stifle a low belch. "Not sure." He harrumphed, clearing his throat. "Legolas had been out there, watching for Gandalf and the king. But they're still lingering down there at the lad's tomb." He released a low somber sigh. "Legolas finally said he wanted to be alone for a time, and left, down toward the stables, and as I came back in, I saw that _Greta_ leaving, too."

"My lords," Éowyn stammered, her voice fraught with sudden concern, "come with me."

Without waiting for an answer, Éowyn turned and with a whisper of her dark blue skirts, strode quickly toward the doors, as Aragorn, a question in his eyes, set down his pipe, rose, and followed behind. Gimli too rose, though he cast a look of regretful longing at his unfinished plate, and trotted along to catch up with Aragorn.

Legolas could feel the breath of his love against his lips, knowing he had but to close the distance, and claim her mouth with his own, but-, a soft warning seemed to tug at the back of his mind, and he hesitated.

An image formed slowly in his mind, a hazy indistinct picture of Lalaith resting upon a cushion of leaves, as she held the medallion Galadriel had given her, in one hand lightly caressing the jewels with her thumb, as she held in her other hand, a small green leaf. Her eyes were fixed upon it, a sad, lonely look resting in her eyes.

"_Legolas_." Her soft voice echoed, as if from a great distance.

"Legolas?" The woman before him asked also with Lalaith's voice, as her hand touched his shoulder, snaking slowly around his neck.

"_Daro_." He ordered, suddenly stepping back from the woman who bore Laliath's visage, but he knew now, was not her. He drew in a quick breath, fighting the fogging poison in his mind, and glared hard at her. With as little cloth as she bore about her shoulders, it was clear to see that this woman, though she appeared as Lalaith, bore no medallion around her neck.

"_Man na le?_" He demanded.

The woman did not answer, but drew a step back and gulped, suddenly awkward and unsure.

"_Pedich i lam edhellen_?" He asked again. "_Henia_?"

Still, she said nothing while her eyes grew wide and frightened.

"_Ú-na Lalaith nin_." He muttered at last, the bitterness thick in his voice. "_Ú-anirion le_." Legolas finished, drawing quickly back, and away from the woman.

"I do not know by what sorcery you have cheated my eyes." He ground out, finally speaking her tongue. "But I do know you are not the one you appear to be."

"But let me be her, for a _moment_, Legolas." She hissed, daring to draw a step closer, and holding out her hands imploringly. "She need never know."

"A you _mad_?" Legolas seethed. "You dare to suggest that I betray her trust in me? Stand aside, and let me pass. Never in all the centuries of my life, have I struck a woman. I do not wish to, now."

"Oh, but _I_ wish to." Breathed a voice from the doorway, and the lady Éowyn suddenly appeared, Aragorn at her arm, with Gimli trotting along behind them. The ranger and Dwarf stopped at the threshold, and their faces drew up in expressions of shocked surprise as Éowyn strode fiercely toward the other woman, lifted a balled fist, and struck her hard in the face, sending her with a strangled cry of shock, sprawling ungracefully upon the dity, straw covered earth of the floor, and as she fell, the golden sheen that had taken her hair flickered, then fled as the light of a torch, suddenly extinguished.

"This is her true face." Éowyn seethed as Greta slowly pushed herself up on her hands, and turned to shoot a scathing look up at her attacker. "Greta, sister of the Wormtongue, as devious as her brother."

Aragorn and Gimli entered the stable slowly, their eyes focused on Éowyn as she stood over Greta, her eyes flashing with bridled fury, proud and queen-like in her pose.

"My lady," Greta cried, "How could you dare to judge my actions to be anything but honorable?"

At this, Éowyn drew in a sharp breath. "Your pardon, Lord Aragorn." She clipped, as she turned, and drew with a sharp rasp, his elven knife from its scabbard at his belt, and turned back to Greta, the curved blade clenched in her fist. "I think it best, Greta, for you to take your horse and ride from here, as hard as you can. Find that snake of a brother, in whatever hole he has crawled into, for no one else would welcome you, now." Éowyn cocked a brow, and with a twist of her head, added lightly, "Unless of course, you wish for your throat to be lain open from ear to ear. Which do you choose?"

Greta looked from Éowyn's flashing eyes to the curved knife in her hand, and gulped hard.

"I want to see my mama." Said the child who had given her name to be Freda as her long, honey colored hair brushed against Gandalf's arm. Exhausted, she could barely lift her head from the wizard's neck as he and Théoden, who carried in his own arms, the half conscious form of Éothain, the girl's brother, came trudging up the hill toward Meduseld. The children's great brown horse, Garulf, Freda had called him, followed faithfully behind, needing no rope to lead him.

"All in good time, my child." Gandalf said, keeping his tone light as he nudged the little girl's chin with his finger, making her smile. "All in good time."

He was interrupted by the hard pounding of horse's hooves coming from ahead, and he glanced up in time to see a figure, dark hair streaming behind her, and a scowl that darkened her whole countenance, flash by upon a horse.

"Ah, yes. The venomous little spider is off to seek out the worm." Gandalf muttered, as if at something he had fully expected. He barely turned to watch the retreating figure, before he his eyes found the little girl's face again.

"You'll be wanting supper, I think?"

Freda's eyes lit up, and she lifted her head, nodding enthusiastically.

"Well, then." Gandalf grinned, and started again up the hill, following as Théoden led. "Let's not let it grow cold!"

*translations*

Suilad, melon nin. - _Greetings, my friend._

Ú-mado nin! Farn aes lin ú-mada? - _Don't eat me! Don't you eat enough food?_

Daro. - _Stop._

Man na le? - _Who are you?_

Pedich i lam edhellen? - _Do you speak Elvish?_

Henia? - _Do you understand_?

Ú-na Lalaith nin. - _You are not my Lalaith_.

Ú-anirion le. - _I don't want you_.

*_I love you, my laughter,  
You are my moon,  
You are my sun,  
Sunrise and sunset  
I love you my laughter,  
You are my heart,  
You are my star,  
Earth and heaven.  
For you are my life  
And my laughter.  
I love you._


	9. Chapter 9

**Lalaith Elerrina-Daughter Valinor - Chapter 9**

**October 5, 2003**

_Submitted By Lalaith-Elerrina_

Disclaimer: LOTR is owned by J.R.R. Tolkien, not me.

Announcment: I hope you are enjoying my story so far. You comments have been kind and supportive, and I appreciate them.

For those of you enjoying the story, perhaps you will be interested in reading my own published works. They are available on Amazon and other online bookstores if you are interested. Their names are The Birthright, and The King's Heir, and you can look them up under my real name, Loralee Evans.

Chapter 9

"They had no warning." Éowyn said plaintively to her uncle, as she rose from where she knelt beside the two hungry children. The brother and sister sat side by side before one of the long tables set out in rows within the Golden Hall, bent over their bread and bowls of warm, though watery soup, scooping in the food eagerly as if they could not eat fast enough.

"They were unarmed." She continued. "Now the Wild Men are moving through the Westfold, burning as they go." She sighed unhappily. "Rick, cot and tree."

The warm Golden Hall was awash with the flickering yellow light of torches, and great fires, the air sifting with the smell of wood smoke, and lingering yet with the wane hint of death. Legolas stood, his back to one of the carven pillars, his eyes watching the king's reaction to the maiden's words.

Théoden sat, slumped wearily in his throne, his face falling into his hand as his niece spoke. Gandalf sat on a stool beside the king, the seat Wormtongue had once taken, and had left unoccupied when he had gone, taking his vile, noxious words with him. And his venomous sister Greta too was gone, no longer lurking like a poisonous little spider in the shadows of the corners, waiting to strike another hapless victim.

At a table beside Legolas, sat Aragorn and Gimli, the Man thoughtfully fingering his pipe as Gimli busily continued to shovel the remains of his own dinner into his hungry mouth. At the lady Éowyn's chilling words, Legolas dropped his eyes, and traded a sober glance with Aragorn. Most assuredly, the Wild Men were doing this at the bidding of Saruman, and at the ranger's glance, Legolas could see that he had guessed the same.

"Where is Mama?" The small girl Freda pleaded, turning her questioning gaze upward as Éowyn drew open the blanket in her hands, folding it over the child's shoulders. But Éowyn only uttered a sooth hush in answer to the child's beseeching inquiry.

"This is but a taste of the terror that Saruman will unleash." Gandalf murmured gravely, gesturing to the children as he sat beside Théoden's throne. The king was an image of discouragement, with his head drooped wearily into his hand as he silently listened. "All the more potent now for he is driven by fear of Sauron.

"Ride out and meet him head on." The White Wizard said in a low, entreating voice. Théoden lifted his head, his face slowly turning toward Gandalf as the wizard placed a gentle hand upon the carved wooden arm of the throne. "Draw him away from your women and children." Gandalf implored.

Théoden fixed his weary gaze upon the wizard as Gandalf finished in a fierce whisper, "You must fight."

"You have two thousand good men riding north as we speak." Aragorn's calm, even voice lifted and echoed through the hall. "Éomer is loyal to you. His men will return and fight for their king."

"They will be three hundred leagues from here by now." Théoden exclaimed, in a sudden flare of emotion, bursting from his throne, and descending the steps as he began to stride about, frustration in his stance. "Éomer cannot help us."

He turned toward Gandalf as the wizard descended the steps, and stated, "I know what it is you want of me. But I will not bring further death to my people." Sternly, he finished, "I will not risk open war."

"Open war is upon you." Aragorn asserted, his voice grave, and his sober eyes fixed upon the king. "Whether you would risk it or not."

Éowyn turned and glanced at Aragorn as he spoke, a somber, soulful look filling her eyes as her glance found his.

"When last I looked," Théoden breathed, his voice low, though Legolas could hear abrasive irritation in his tone, "Théoden, not Aragorn, was king of Rohan."

Legolas glanced at Aragorn, awaiting his reaction to the king's sharp retort but saw none.

The blood of kings flowed in Aragorn's veins, unbroken since the days of Isildur, son of Elendil. But Théoden was right, harsh though his words may have been. Rohan was not Aragorn's domain. And Aragorn, Legolas knew, would honor Théoden's rule, and stay within his bounds.

"Then what is the king's decision?" Gandalf asked his voice soft, though it was weighted heavily with earnest expectancy.

Théoden turned then, and glanced back at the wizard, his jaw contracting beneath his beard, his thoughts working over the difficulty of the choice in his mind.

Legolas could clearly see the weight of the burden of his kingship upon Théoden at that moment. Many lives rested upon his choice, and the knowledge of this settled visibly, almost like a physical weight, upon Théoden's clearly troubled mind.

"By order of the king, the city must empty! We make for the refuge of Helm's Deep." Háma called out. He had done so several times already, and would do so again, repeating Théoden's orders many times over, ensuring that all the people of Edoras knew of the king's edict.

A cold wind brushed over the great hilltop, catching at his thick green cloak as he moved along. "Do not burden yourselves with treasures. Take only what provisions you need."

The morning was young yet; the cool breath left by the night had not yet given way to the heat of the day, but the city was already a bustle of activity as its citizens scrambled to load wagons and carts with only the barest of necessities, food and clothing, and with those too old or feeble to make the arduous journey on foot.

Legolas' heart twisted pityingly within him as he strode beside Gimli, his bow and other gear within his hand, following behind Aragorn and Gandalf as the four made their way down to the stables. He could see the fear in the faces of the people of Edoras, the old, the young, even the soldiers. And especially in the faces of mothers who clutched their little children all the more closely to them, children who were too young to know the danger they were in, and could not understand the commotion.

His eyes lighted briefly on one young mother who clutched a basket of provisions in one arm, and a small boy in her other. The boy was a beautiful child in spite of the dirt smeared onto his fair, chubby cheeks. There was no fear in his eyes. For in the child's infant mind, there was no need to be afraid. His mother held him. That was all he needed to know.

_Lalaith_. Legolas thought warmly. Lalaith would be a good mother someday. When all this was past, and the threats of Sauron and Saruman, and the One Ring were no more.

He glanced down once again, as he had times uncounted, at the ring upon his finger, and his hand strayed to his chest where he could feel the necklace that he kept for Lalaith, beneath his tunic. He could sense her vaguely, as he touched it. She was alive and safe, and happy. But that was not surprising, for she was with Merry and Pippin. The two young Hobbits could keep her laughing with their antics for days, if they had a mind to. A thread of a smile touched his lips.

But then his smile slowly faded as he remembered his encounter with Greta, the touch of her hand upon his shoulder and neck, like the cold strangling coil of a snake, leaving him feeling somehow-, _dirty_. Putting a hand to his shoulder, he brushed it swiftly, nervously, as if trying to fling away an unwanted spider that had crawled there, and Gimli glanced at him, noticing.

"'T'weren't your fault, lad." He insisted with a growl, somehow guessing his friend's thoughts. "Never think it was. We saw what happened."

Casting his eyes on the Dwarf, Legolas gave a grin, and a short nod of thanks. "I'll try to remember that."

"_Try_?" Gimli humphed. "I'll _make_ you remember it if I have to pound it into your head with the flat of my axe!" The Dwarf brandished his axe threateningly, to which Legolas only chuckled.

"Though-," Gimli said with a pause, as if thinking better of it, "the flat of my axe could find better use pounding some sense into the king's head!"

"Watch your words, Gimli." Aragorn mildly warned him over his shoulder, but Gimli hardly seemed to hear.

"Helm's Deep!" He grunted, his voice taking on a disgusted tone as the four continued down the path. "They flee to the mountains when they should stand and fight. Who will defend them, if not their king?"

"He's only doing what he thinks is best for his people." Aragorn returned, as they entered the stables, the scent of warm hay washing around them. "Helm's Deep has saved them in the past."

"There is no way out of that ravine." Gandalf murmured as he and Aragorn continued on to the pen of Shadowfax. "Théoden is walking into a trap. He thinks he's leading them to safety." The door creaked softly as Aragorn drew it open for Gandalf, and the wizard stepped inside. "What they will get, is a massacre." He said in a low voice.

"Théoden has a strong will, but I fear for him." Gandalf added gravely. "I fear for the survival of Rohan." Gandalf fixed his eyes upon Aragorn, speaking slowly, his words taking on a heavy tone. "He will need you before the end, Aragorn. The people of Rohan will need you." He drew closer to Aragorn, his eyes fixed upon the Man's face. "The defenses have to hold."

"They will hold." Came Aragorn's calm reply.

With this assurance, Gandalf turned away toward Shadowfax, stroking the smooth white neck of the horse. "The Grey Pilgrim." He muttered, almost to himself with a shallow smile. "That's what they used to call me." His eyes again grew grave as he turned back to the Man. "Three hundred lives of Men I've walked this earth, and now I have no time."

Without speaking, but with a smile of encouragement, Aragorn stepped aside, drawing the gate with him, and giving Shadowfax room to pass.

"With luck, my search will not be in vain." Gandalf's voice had grown stronger as he lifted himself up unaided, onto the silver horse's back. "Look to my coming at first light on the fifth day. At dawn, look to the east."

Aragorn nodded at this, and spoke softly, "Go."

As an arrow loosed from a string, Shadowfax sprang forward, bearing Gandalf upon his back, his hooves making a hollow clatter upon the straw strewn floor of the stable. Legolas with Gimli, drew to the side as the great silver horse bore Gandalf past them, and even as Legolas turned to mark their passing, Shadowfax and Gandalf were gone; a flash of silver beyond the wide doors, already pounding down the slope of the mound, and away through the gates, as a swift wind over the dried yellow grasses of Rohan.


	10. Chapter 10

**Lalaith Elerrina-Daughter of Valinor - Chapter 10**

**October 7, 2003**

_Submitted By Lalaith-Elerrina_

note: _This part is seriously PG-13, as it contains that scene where the Rohirrim fight the warg riders. There's a considerable amount of blood._

Chapter 10

Legolas stood on a low hillock, surveying the wide land before them. They were nearing Helm's Deep. They were less than a day's journey from the great fortress of Rohan, and he could see nothing in the wide land that could pose a threat to the company, but his nerves were on edge, for what reason, he did not know.

The thumping of hooves drew near from behind him, and he turned to glance over his shoulder. The company was wending its slow way along, the long, tiresome journey having taken a visible toll on the people. Aragorn and Éowyn were walking slowly side by side at the head of the column, their horses following along at the reins. Further back, Gimli tromped alongside Arod as Háma and another soldier, Gamling, galloped past, surged up the low rise upon which Legolas stood, and continued on ahead, over the slope of another hill, and out of sight beyond a thrusting ledge of rock that rose toward the higher ground above them.

Something was wrong. Legolas could sense it, like a fleeting intangible odor in the air, and he could see too, the nervous dancing of the horses, who sensed something sinister as well.

He did not wait long. For ahead, from the direction in which the two men had disappeared, came sudden shouts and the terrified screams of horses, accompanied by deep throated canine snarls.

"Wargs!" Came the frantic warning shout, though as Legolas broke into a run across the dry waving grass toward the sound, he had already guessed it. One of the horses was down, he saw, as he cleared the crest of the hill, and the scabby, rough haired wolf, mounted by a scimitar wielding orc, had just flung away Háma, who fell limp, rolled over the grass, and lay still.

The orc had turned now on Gamling, who struggled with his frightened steed with one hand while his sword crossed against the orc's blade with a harsh crash of metal.

Legolas flew with a running leap down the crumbled rock from the higher ledge, hardly pausing as his feet struck the ground, stringing and releasing an arrow on the run. One of his white knives was in his hand even before the arrow had struck true through the neck of the wolf. The creature fell heavily to the ground, dead before it hit the earth, its head bouncing as its thick limbs twitched. It had thrown its rider, and the orc barely had time to glance up and utter a hideous screech before Legolas' knife flashed across its throat, ending its screams in a gurgle of frothy black blood.

"A scout!" He shouted over his shoulder at Aragorn who had come rushing behind. With a furious kick, he sent the convulsing body rolling away as Aragorn turned and sprinted back down the hill.

"What is it?" Théoden demanded, galloping near on his horse. "What do you see?"

"Wargs!" Aragorn shouted. "We're under attack!"

As the cries of fear at Aragorn's news rose from the column behind him, Legolas turned and sprinted up the steep slope of the rising ground, bounding over the yellow grass and leaping off the jagged edged stones, until he came to the crest of the slope and paused upon a projecting lip of stone just as a great seething mass of barking wargs and their orcish riders came flying over the crest of the distant rill, swarming thickly down the side of it into the shallow undulating valley between the two rolling hills.

They continued to pour over the ridge, dozens upon dozens, a yelping, snapping flood of bloodthirsty vermin, and his blood boiled hot. Snatching an arrow from his quiver, he drew it back to his cheek, and let fly, finding small satisfaction as his arrow found its mark in the back of the neck of the foremost wolf as it lunged down the side of a small rill. The creature tumbled, dead, throwing its orc master as it fell, ignored by its comrades who galloped over it, as both mount and rider tumbled to a stop, still and dead, but more were coming.

Legolas could hear the thunderous pounding of many hooves growing behind him, and released one more arrow into the oncoming pack before he turned. Arod, with Gimli upon his back, was hurtling toward him beside the galloping horses of Aragorn and Théoden. Many more mounted soldiers were flying over the grass behind them as the green flag of Rohan, etched with the form of a running white horse clapped fiercely through the swift wind.

As Arod flew near, Legolas reached out, and in the instant that the horse whipped past, snatched the buckle of the harness across his white chest. His fingers strained with the effort of his weight suddenly pulled from the ground by the speed of Arod's flight, but with the strength built from centuries of tireless training with bow and blade, clung on. The momentum of the horse's speed as well as his own straining muscles, carried him across the front of Arod's neck, and upward over the surging horse's back, where he swung at last into the saddle in front of Gimli who was too startled at the Elf's acrobatic mount into the saddle to utter any more than a strangled grunt of surprise that was whipped quickly away into the wind.

The others barely noticed, for their eyes were fixed with grim determination upon the snapping growling pack flying with every increasing pace toward them. He could see the hatred in their eyes, in the eyes of the orcs, as well as their warg mounts, their training to kill whipped and beaten into them from whelphood. Time seemed to slow as horses and wargs flew at each other. A hundred paces lay between them, then fifty, then twenty.

And then with a furious crash as of thunder, they struck each other.

Chaos erupted. Baying wolves and white eyed horses, frothing at the bit, wove together as their masters clashed. An orc, speared through the chest, fell from its saddle and was trampled beneath the flailing hooves of horses as well as its own snarling mount, which, in its mindless bloodlust, turned on its own master, snatching the wounded orc in its mouth, and ending its pain with a crunch of its spine, before flinging the dead orc away. It turned to lunge at a horse's neck, before another spear was thrust beneath its foreleg, in between its ribs, and into its heart. It collapsed, twitching, beside the master it had betrayed.

Legolas sighted upon one warg, bearing down released the string of his bow with a sharp twang, and the arrow flew with unerring accuracy, into the throat of the beast, right behind its spear studded collar. With a dying yelp, it flipped into the air, head over tail, flinging its rider from its back, before landing heavily upon the unfortunate orc, crushing it into the ground. Neither moved again.

As metal clashed with metal, and the screams of terrified horses wove together with the snarls of wolves, Legolas turned Arod's head toward a snarling wolf that had slashed its bloodied claws into the belly of a horse, that lay screaming in its own gore, and struggling to rise, the poor creature confused as to why its legs no longer worked. The warg had sighted now on its master as well, a young looking Man, whose was struggling to draw his pinned leg from beneath the weight of his mortally wounded mount. As Arod galloped frantically, Legolas felt Gimli slip. But he had precious little time to glance back and see that the Dwarf had rolled to his feet, uninjured, before he had to turn and rush onward. He loosed an arrow into the wolf's side mid-stride, unsheathed one of his knives in one swift motion, and as Arod sprinted past, slashed the blade across the throat of the warg's orc rider even before the dead wolf beneath it had time to collapse. Glancing down and ensuring himself that the young human had found his feet and was safe, for the moment, he turned Arod about again.

Gimli stood alone upon the yellow, bloodied grass where he had fallen, brandishing his axe as a scar faced warg, its mouth stained crimson from a dead horse whose bloody belly it had been nosing, lifted its head, and twitched its ears at him. A low snarl escaped its throat, and it padded away from the mangled horse, sniffing the air as it growlingly grew closer to Gimli.

"Bring your pretty face to my axe!" The Dwarf challenged, and the warg complied, breaking into a thumping run.

Having no time to seek a better angle to strike at the warg, Legolas drew his string back, left-handed, and released an arrow into the wolf's throat. It fell, instantly dead, with the arrowhead thrusting clear through its head and out of one nostril, plowing up a mound of earth at the Dwarf's feet.

"That one counts as mine!" Gimli complained as Legolas galloped off to lend help elsewhere. Gimli could look after himself, especially now that there were fewer orcs and their mounts to contend with.

Legolas' arrows struck down three more wolves and their riders, before at last, he reined Arod in, and glanced about. Most of their foes were dead, and those not killed, were fleeing with fearful yaps, back the way they had come. Though a few of Théoden's men pursued after them a short distance, they soon turned themselves about, and came back, deciding that the chase was not worth the risk.

Gimli was still alive, thankfully, though he was staggering about, at the bottom of the grassy hollow as if he had had the breath knocked out of him. But the sturdy Dwarf still seemed to have the use his wits as he drew near a bloodied, wounded warg, and brought his axe down with a hollow chunk into the creature's neck, cutting off its growling whimpers.

Théoden too, was uninjured. He had dismounted, and was glancing about now as if looking for someone, a fraught, worried expression on his face. Legolas quickly realized the reason for the king's agitation, for as he cast his eyes across the blood soaked field, strewn with the bodies of Men and of orcs as well as their mounts, he could see no sign of Aragorn. Hasufel stood near, uninjured, yet riderless, his head lifted and his ears perked as if he too, were looking about for his master.

A cold feeling gripped Legolas' chest as he leapt from Arod's back to the ground. "Aragorn!" He cried, striding up a low rise, praying that perhaps he was on the other side. But at the crest, he could see no sign of Aragorn, alive or dead.

"Aragorn?" Echoed Gimli, now too glancing about in the hope that they might spot some sign of him. But there was nothing.

Striding quickly toward the edge of a bare rock, Legolas crouched down, over a spoor of bright red blood drawn out along the cruel, serrated stone for a short space. It looked as if a Man had been dragged here, his shoulder, perhaps, braised against the rough rock.

A cruel, gurgling chuckle brought his attention away from the short trail of blood, and he glanced behind him at an orc that lay upon the ground, coughing black blood through its teeth with each cackle. A knife wound in its chest was pouring blood, and a few paces away, lay the curved knife Celeborn had given Aragon in Lothlórien, as if it had made the wound, but had somehow torn loose when the creature fell from its mount.

"Tell me what happened, and I will ease your passing." Gimli growled, bounding near, and holding his axe above the face of the orc.

"He's-," coughed the orc as Legolas strode near, and Théoden came up behind Gimli, moving more slowly, "-dead."

As blood spilled from its lips, the orc sneered, "He took a little tumble off the cliff."

Legolas dropped to a knee, and shook the orc roughly at this news. "You lie!" He seethed through clenched teeth.

But the orc gave no reply to this, and instead stiffened, wheezing as if struggling for air, and its breath stopped. Legolas shoved the dead orc back upon the ground in disgust, and then noticed the silver shimmer of something clutched in its hand.

His eyes did not want to believe what they saw as he slowly drew the necklace of the Evenstar, from the dead creature's fist. The gift from Arwen that Aragorn had worn around his neck since the Fellowship had begun their journey. And his heart felt suddenly as heavy as a stone. It could not be true, and yet it was.

Leaping up, he darted, with Gimli scrambling behind him, to the edge of the rock, where Théoden already stood, gazing with helpless eyes down to the bottom of the cliff where a brown frothing river roiled between the crags of stone. There were shelves of rock jutting out from the base of the cliff over the rumbling water, but there was no broken body lying down there among the ragged stones. There was no sign at all of Aragorn, and but for the necklace in his hand, Legolas would have refused to believe that his friend could have fallen. The body must have landed in the water, he realized as his sickened, heavy heart sank in his chest. The river must have carried it off, rolling it away down stream where it would never be found again.

"Get the wounded on horses." Théoden turned and called wearily to Gamling who had drawn near, and stood, awaiting orders. The man gave a sober nod as Théoden continued. "The wolves of Isengard will return." After a moment's pause, he finished in a more somber voice, "Leave the dead." And shoved with a gesture of finality, his sword back into its sheath.

Legolas turned, and caught Théoden's eye. Had he heard his words properly? They would leave the slain bodies of their brave comrades to rot upon the earth, unburied, to be torn by wolves and vultures? They would not even try to seek for Aragorn's body?

But as Théoden's eyes caught his own, Legolas suddenly sensed the weight of the king's office that Théoden bore, and understood, with the heavy grief that lay there in Théoden's eyes, how difficult it had been to give such an order. Théoden was right. The orcs would return, and delaying their retreat to Helm's Deep would only put the survivors in greater danger.

"Come." The king offered, gently clapping Legolas' shoulder. Théoden turned away then, and walked with heavy step from the ledge of the cliff. But Legolas lingered, with Gimli at his shoulder, gazing for long moments into the tumbling rush of brown water far below them, the river that had carried away the body of their comrade.

"Your brother tells me that you have used the little gift I gave you to do nothing but play." Saruman said without preamble as Greta entered the darkened room.

She scowled at the dingy, white robed wizard who stood almost serenely, except for the sly tepid grin on his face, before a great sphere of iron, studded with sharp spikes. In spite of the many candles set within great iron wrought candle sticks about the room, the air was still thick and shaded. But Greta liked the shadows. They were more suited to her.

She flashed a scathing look at her dark robed brother who stood clutching a candle, simpering in a corner of the room.

"Your orcs stole my horse." She growled in return to Saruman's words, flopping down into an empty chair before the wizard. "And _ate_ it!"

"You should be grateful that I told them of your coming." Saruman said evenly with a lift of his brow as he poured a shower of dark pebbly stones into an opening at the top of the spherical cask "For if I had not ordered them to leave you unmolested, they would have eaten you as well." He smiled sourly. "Among other things."

Greta said nothing to this, as she absorbed the wizard's low spoken words with a shudder. At last, she shrugged, cast a bitter glance at her brother, and asked casually, "How did you know I was coming?"

"You are just like your brother in heart and mind, my dear." Saruman's voice was cool, oily as if he knew of many things she did not know, and enjoyed leaving her in her ignorance. "When he arrived simpering like a dog with his tail between his legs, I knew you would not be far behind."

Casually, Saruman dusted off his hands, and reached for a filled wine goblet at his side, and took a sip. Greta eyed it thirstily; it had been long since she had anything to eat or drink. But Saruman simply smiled, and set it back down, offering her nothing offered her nothing.

"As I was saying, my dear," he cooed soothingly, "you were not able to complete the task that I requested of you. You could have married the king's son. You and your brother could have destroyed Rohan from within. You failed."

"Théodred was beyond me!" She defended herself with a sudden angry huff. "He did not want _me_, and I could not use the powers you gave me to become more desirable to him, because he put all his thought to defending Rohan."

"I always thought it a foolish, useless thing to be able to change into the image of whatever woman a man was thinking of." Gríma muttered almost inaudibly from his corner.

Greta turned to him, and flashed him a vicious smirk through Éowyn's fair, lightly freckled face, as her long black hair flared momentarily to a bright honey brown, then snuffed back to her own black color as she turned back to Saruman, her own face flashing back in its place.

"I did my best. Better than Gríma." She scowled stubbornly, casting a dark look at her brother who returned it.

"Stop your bickering!" Saruman commanded glancing between the two off them, his eyes flashing with an unspoken threat. "You both fell short of what I expected of you."

Greta cringed, seeing the fury in his eyes, and fearing him.

"You are fortunate that I am patient." He seethed softly through his teeth, his cold eyes flashing between the two. "And that I have found a way to destroy Rohan in spite of your failure. Otherwise, I might begin to think that you have outlived your usefulness. And then," he turned now, his attention fully on Greta now and lifted a brow, "you would have more to worry about than stolen horses."

She gulped, and glanced from him to the spiked iron ball. "What is this for?" She asked in a voice that shook in spite of herself.

"This, my dear, will help me, where you failed."

"How?" She asked, grasping a candle from its bracket and stepping closer.

"Helm's Deep has one weakness." Gríma muttered proudly, sneering bitterly at her as if with knowledge that only he was privy to. "It's outer wall is solid rock but for a small culvert at its base which is little more than a drain."

"Do you know, my dear, how to split a tree's heart open?" Saruman asked casually glancing at Great, as he turned to a nearby table and picked up a clear glass beaker filled with more of the small black pebbles. "You find a weak spot a crack, if you will, in its bark, and into that, you place a sharp bladed wedge. And then," he smiled cruelly as he poured the black pebbles into the opening of the great spiked ball, "you strike it."

"How?" Gríma asked, scraping near, holding his flickering candle over the iron sphere. "How can fire undo stone? What kind of device could bring down the wall?" As he held his candle over the opening into which Saruman had poured the black grains, the wizard reached out and caught his hand which held the burning candle, and pushed him back.

"If the wall is breached, Helm's Deep will fall." Saruman said evenly, as he turned away, took up his wizard's staff, and began to stride down a long hallway.

"Even if the wall is breached," Gríma muttered as he followed hunched and scurrying behind, "it will take a number beyond reckoning, thousands to storm the Keep."

"Tens of thousands." Greta scoffed, hopping to her feet and striding after the wizard and her brother. She sneered at Gríma behind his back. He had not seen the massing orcs as she had, when she had come.

"Indeed." Saruman agreed as the three strode through a wide room. In the middle, sat a high pedestal upon which sat a great stone, smooth and polished like a black opal. Beneath its black surface, striated clouds seemed to pass swiftly, concealing distorted distant images within its depths, and she narrowed her eyes at it. What it's use was for, she could not begin to guess. Perhaps it was nothing more than some worthless wizard's toy. With a sneer, she turned her eyes back to Saruman.

"But my lord, there is no such force." Gríma insisted. Greta chuckled aloud.

"Fool." She muttered as the three stepped through an open doorway and into the hot wind that brushed their faces across the high balcony upon which she found herself.

Orc horns sounded, and a collective roar rose up from many thousands of orc throats. She glanced at her brother with a sneer, pleased at his dumbfounded reaction.

As Saruman held up a hand, the roaring chant of the orcs quieted, and he called out to the massed throng, "A new power is rising! Its victory is at hand."

To this, the orcs broke into a frenzied cheer once again, quelled into silence by Saruman's nod, and lifted hand.

"This night," he shouted, "the land will be stained with the blood of Rohan. March to Helm's Deep. Leave none alive." His eyes glazed with mad delight, Saruman lifted both hands into the air, and cried, "To war!"

Greta grinned evilly over the shrieking throng of orcs, but as she lifted her eyes to her brother's and saw a single tear make its way down his cheek, her smile fell away . Did he regret what he had done, selling himself to the promises of Saruman?

Gazing long at the tear upon her brother's cheek, Greta's previous glee faded, for she realized that she too felt something inside. Something that was still human beneath all the darkness and cruelty. And in that small part of her that still felt, she realized that she hated herself.


	11. Chapter 11

**Lothirien of Lórien - Chapter 4**

**October 8, 2003**

_Submitted By Lalaith-Elerrina_

Lothirien of Lórien, Chapter 4

Lothirien sighed contentedly, slowly coming back to the waking world, but unwilling to fully return as she let part of her mind remain in the bliss of her dreams.

Once again she was reliving the scurried preparations of the previous day, as Lady Galadriel, and her maids rushed about her at a frenzied pace while she alone sat as still as a slender tree in the midst of them. She remembered the glittering white gown that had been her own mother's wedding dress, scooped in front, and hanging delicately from her soft shoulders, while the long silky sleeves tapered down her arms, ending in a point on the backs of her wrists. The waist was tight enough to accentuate her form, but not restricting, and the skirt was full, shimmering in the soft blue light of the lamps as Galadriel's maidens helped her into it, and then brushed her long, golden hair until it fell about her like shimmering silk.

Then the Lady of the Galadhrim had placed a plaited circlet of blue and gold flowers draped with a long, gossamer veil, upon Lothirien's hair, white and transparent, hanging long over her face and her shoulders, the last touch before Galadriel had helped Lothirien to her feet, and led her down the steps from the talan where the Lady and her maidens had readied her, and onto the lush grass of a green lawn spread before a white, vine entwined bower. Elves, dressed in their finest gowns and robes, and each holding a slender silver wine glass, stood expectantly to each side forming an aisle down which Lothirien would pass, their heads, as in one body, turning as the Lady of the Galadhrim led Lothirien into view.

Lothirien paused nervously, and Galadriel turned, offering her a smile of gentle encouragement. Lothirien returned it, before she turned her eyes forward, and her gaze became lost in Haldir's eyes where he stood beneath the bower, waiting for her.

Lothirien forgot all else but his eyes as Galadriel led her forward through the crowd, then released her hand and joined Celeborn who stood nearby as Lothirien ascended the few steps alone, into the quiet shade of the bower and slipped her hands into Haldir's, her eyes hardly blinking, never leaving his own.

"You are so beautiful," she remembered Haldir murmuring beneath his breath for her alone before he squeezed her hands, and spoke aloud for all to hear.

"Lothirien," he said, speaking slowly, his voice low, though it rang with conviction and joy, "in free will and in love, I bind myself to you before Ilúvatar, the Valar, and before the eyes of our people, for all eternity, through all our joys, and all our pains, never to be parted from you except it be by-,"

Haldir suddenly stopped here, and a worried look came into his eyes as he gazed down into her own. The word he should have spoken, was _death_. But somehow he could not speak it. The word would not come to his lips.

Celeborn and Galadriel cast a questioning glance at each other, but said nothing.

"Haldir," Lothirien began quickly, speaking in a smooth, clear voice, "in free will and in love I bind myself to you before Ilúvatar, the Valar, and before the eyes of our people for all eternity, through all our joys and all our pains." Here she ended the pronouncement of the tradition wedding vows of the Galadhrim, and leaning closer, whispering for only Haldir to hear, "And, Ilúvatar willing, I will only love you better, should death ever take one of us."

A mist formed in Haldir's eyes, and she smiled her love up at him as at the base of the steps, Galadriel raised a silver wine glass, and called in a clear, joyful voice, "Hail, Haldir and Lothirien, may your love be great, and may the blessings of Ilúvatar and the Valar rest upon your union."

Celeborn, and the rest of the gathering raised their glasses as well, and in one voice, repeated Galadriel's blessing.

Lothirien caught a breath in her throat now, as Haldir released her hands, and took hold of the edge of the veil, lifting it reverently away from her face. Galadriel had drawn closer, and he turned to the Lady of the Galadhrim, taking the silver wine glass she offered him, then carefully set it at Lothirien's lips as she took a sip of the sweet liquid, then took the glass into her own hands, and offered him a sip as well before she handed the glass back to Galadriel who took it with a smile, and stepped back to Celeborn's side. Lothirien looked upward once again at Haldir who smiled now, and bent his head downward toward hers.

"I love you." He murmured before their lips met in a warm, gentle kiss, sealing their vows.

Lothirien slowly opened her eyes, gazing up into Haldir's face, and the sudden realization that he was now her own, her husband, gripped her heart, and brought tears to her eyes. Haldir, she could see, was feeling as she was, for his eyes were shining with tears of his own.

"And I love you, Haldir." She returned softly. And then, with a laugh that was half a sob of joy, Lothirien cast aside the quiet restraint of her nature, and flung herself unashamedly into his arms. She could feel his arms circling tightly around her, and could feel his warm breath against her face as he kissed her again. The kiss was at once both fervent and gentle, conveying to her the same caring passion that he would later, when they found themselves at last alone, together in their own bed chamber, the one she would share now with him, for the rest of the ages of the world.

Lothirien smiled at the sweet dream, and stirred, sighing contentedly where she lay against Haldir, feeling the rise and fall of his even breathing, and the steady murmur of his heart. One of his hands covered hers where it rested upon his chest, and the other was entwined in her golden hair that lay beneath her head in a tumbled mass. Slowly, the remnants of her dreamscape blurred, and the waking world came into focus.

Morning sun streamed generously through the fluted screens and plaited branches above their bed, telling her that it was well into late morning. She raised her gaze to his eyes, and found them focused upon her.

"Good morning, Haldir," She murmured, and smiled sleepily.

"If one could call it `morning'," Haldir grinned back, lifting a hand and softly tracing the lines of her face with a touch that was softer than the brush of a feather. "We are being terribly decadent."

"Mmm." She agreed happily, running her small hand over his smooth chest. "One would think we did not get enough sleep last night."

"Sleep?" Haldir whispered softly. His arms, warm and protective, tightened around her as his eyes grew soft and dark. "Night, my little flower, is no longer for sleeping. Not for us."

"Haldir!" She laughed, coyly pushing his arms away as he tried to put them around her. "What of your poor wife? When shall she find her rest, feeble weakling that she is?"

Her gentle teasing only charmed Haldir all the more, and he finally encircled her in his arms and pulled her against him. As their eyes met, Lothirien's smile faded, and her flesh shivered warmly.

"From what we shared last night, I have seen for myself that my wife is neither weak, nor feeble," he whispered, the words carrying a meaning that sent traces of pleasure shivering along her skin. "I am glad you are mine, Lothirien," he finished in a warm whisper.

"And I am glad you are mine," she murmured.

At this, a knock sounded at the main door of their house, down several steps, and through an arching entryway upon their front talan where steps encircled their tree, spiraling down toward the ground. The sound was soft and hesitant at first, then after a lengthy pause, louder with more purpose.

Lothirien groaned and buried her face against Haldir's neck, wishing the sound would stop, but it only increased in intensity, and this time a voice, Rumil's voice, accompanied it.

"Haldir, forgive me. Lord Celeborn asks that you come meet him and the Lady immediately." His younger brother's voice sounded distant.

"It was Lord Celeborn who said you had a few days leave," Lothirien moaned, lifting her head. "Rumil and Orophin can lead the border patrols."

Haldir's eyes found hers. "I know. But when our Lord and Lady need me, I must go."

Lothirien frowned and sat back as Haldir drew away from her and rose from their bed.

"Very well. I am coming," he called to Rumil as he threw a robe about himself. Lothirien frowned and rolled over to her own pillow, tucking her arm beneath her head.

She could hear him going through the preparations of dressing, and her frown grew into a scowl as she muttered angry curses at Lord Celeborn under her breath.

"By the Valar!" Haldir chuckled, at last coming into her view, and sitting beside her upon the bed. "I am astounded that my gentle wife knows such language!"

He was fully dressed, down to his light, doe-skin boots, and Lothirien's scowl only deepened.

Haldir shook his head and laughed outright at this. "I feel as you do," he said, his smiling fading quickly, and his voice growing tender. A table beside their bed held a bowl of fresh red berries, and he plucked one up, popping the single berry into her willing mouth. "I wish that I could stay here with you," he murmured. "But I will be back."

"Do not be gone long," she murmured, her hand reaching for and catching Haldir's hand, so it would not escape too quickly as she slowly licked the traces of berry juice from his finger tips, her eyes ever fixed on his.

Haldir's finger lightly traced the curve of her lips, then followed a line down her face, along her throat, and to her smooth, bare shoulder.

Haldir grinned, and bent lower over her, their lips meeting in a lingering kiss that spoke warmly of promise. He could still taste the sweetness of the berry he'd given her against the moist warmth of her mouth. "I will be back soon." He pecked the end of her nose with a quick kiss before he straightened and stood, one eyebrow arching upward mischievously. "Nothing could keep me away from _you_, long."

Lothirien smiled as he gave her a parting wink then turned away. He closed the gilded door of their bedroom behind him, and she heard his departing steps descending down the trunk of the great Mallorn tree upon which their house was perched, heard his muffled words as he greeted Rumil, and then there was silence as the two departed together. Alone in the stillness, she smiled to herself and folded her hands behind her head, raising her eyes to the ceiling that was little more than a thin screen, gracefully intertwined with leafy branches.

Kneeling in front of her tapestry, Lothirien lifted her head when she heard Haldir's returning footsteps enter their house. But she did not turn. His footsteps, heavy and weary, paused in their bedroom, then moved on, following the steps that had been set into the very branches of the tree wherein their house was perched, up toward the room where she sat, the room they had decided would be the baby's when one came.

His footsteps drew near, until they stopped at last directly behind her, and still she did not turn. She was angry. He had said he would not be gone long, and she had waited but he did not return.

The morning had grown late. So she had risen, dressed, and had swept their home clean, still waiting for him, and yet he had not come. As the golden light of day faded softly to the muted silver of night, she had prepared the evening meal, the first she had prepared for Haldir in her new home, and had waited with eager expectancy to share it with him, only to find herself eating alone, watching the rest of it grow cold.

Finally, knowing she could not sleep in their bed without him, she had assembled her loom, and had fitted her tapestry upon it, one which she had been slowly stitching at since the night she had promised herself to Haldir. The colors were bright, chosen to match the unbridled joy she had felt when she had first learned of his feelings for her.

The border was woven to imitate a golden vine trailing along a crimson trellis, while the portrait within, carried the images of three Elves. A man stood over a seated woman, upon whose lap, the image was beginning to appear of a small Elfling's golden head, but whether the child was a boy or girl yet, he could not tell.

Standing behind his wife, Haldir easily recognized his own image, as well as hers. That Lothirien's image bore a child upon her lap, brought him both comfort and misery at once, and as he gazed upon the blissful joy within the faces of the little family woven into her tapestry, he lost all the remaining vestiges of his strength, and collapsed heavily into a wrought silver chair beside the doorway.

"It is a beautiful tapestry you weave," he said softly, as Lothirien, clearly aware of him, still did not turn.

"You're angry with me," he mumbled, dropping his face into his hands.

"You said you would be back soon," Lothirien clipped in return.

"And I meant what I said." He sighed, wishing she would turn, aching that she did not. "But I did not realize the import of the summons."

"So you were gone from your new wife all day? Or did you simply forget that you were no longer a carefree bachelor, with no one waiting at home, longing for your return?" she asked, her eyes fixed determinedly on her tapestry. Now Haldir would know what it was like to be ignored.

"Lothirien, I beg you, do not be angry with me. Not now." Haldir's voice sounded weak and depleted, and at these words, Lothirien's heart at last began to soften.

"Forgive me Haldir." She sighed as she began at last, to turn. "I do not mean to be angry. But we were only married yesterday. I was so lonely for you, and I had hoped-,"

Her words melted into silence as her eyes found him. His head lifted from his hands to meet her eyes, and he saw the confusion in them, and the questions.

"Haldir," she asked quietly, and his heart felt as if it would break at her soft question, "why are you wearing armor?"


	12. Chapter 12

A long moment passed as Lothirien knelt before her loom, waiting for her husband to answer.

"Haldir?" she asked again softly, when he did not answer.

"Lothirien," he sighed, and her name on his tongue was broken, as if he fought to restrain emotions. "I must go."

"Go?" she asked, turning from her tapestry and rising to her feet. "I don't understand. Go where?" She moved softly toward him, and knelt beside him where he still sat, hunched and weary.

"Haldir?" she whispered, resting a hand upon his knee, and reaching for one of his hands. As her small hand slid into his, he caught it, and clung to it as if to a lifeline.

"Lothirien," he choked, his eyes delving into her own with a melancholy pleading that drove a shiver of grief through her. "You know I love you, do you not?"

"Of course I do," she returned softly.

"And that I will love you for all the ages of this world, and even beyond the life of Arda, for all of eternity?"

"Haldir, why are you speaking like this?" Lothirien pleaded, distressed, gazing up into her husband's troubled face. She could feel tears filling her eyes, but would not let them fall. "Where must you go?"

"Orcs of Isengard are marching upon the Men of Rohan." Haldir answered at last, his voice barely above a whisper. "If we do not aid them, the world of Men will fall."

"You are going to war against the Orcs of Saruman?" she choked in a timid voice. Her head felt suddenly heavy, and she rested it upon his knee, clutching his hand all the tighter.

"I am," he answered in a thick voice as a trembling hand touched softly to her hair, his fingers running gently through it.

"H-how soon?"

"We leave within the hour."

"Haldir," she whispered, shaking her head. "I, I-, oh, Haldir." She could speak no more, for a sob suddenly choked her words from her. Pulling her hand from his own, she covered her face, and continued to weep.

"Lothirien," she heard him murmur as he dropped to his knees as well. His arms went around her, and pulled her close. The armor across his chest was stiff and cold, but she clung to him anyway, burying her face against his neck as she continued to sob her heart out. One of his arms fairly crushed her against him, while the other found its way into her hair. "Lothirien, my little flower. Do not weep for me. I will come back to you."

With her face buried against his neck, Lothirien did not see Haldir flinch at his own words, his frivolous promise. But he found himself willing to promise anything if only to end her heartbroken sobs.

As he spoke, Lothirien choked, and drew back, lifting her swollen eyes to his. "Haldir, I am going with you."

Haldir blinked slowly studying his bride's tear stained, yet determined face as the words she had uttered settled slowing within his mind. And as the meaning of her words came to rest, a cold fear clutched suddenly at him. "You cannot," he said, with a determined shake of his head. "You are not going. You will stay here. Where it is safe."

"No," she protested with a vigorous shake of her head. She drew back and rose to her feet. "I am coming with you, Haldir."

Without staying to listen to his protest, she turned away, and clattered down the steps to their bedroom. A wooden chest that had belonged to her since she was a child, sat against the wall, and she threw it open, before she peeled off the dress she wore, and flung it upon their bed. Out of the chest, she drew a clean tunic and a pair of breeches, and Haldir slowly entered the room to see her clambering into the mannish clothes. He paused, and a reluctant smile came briefly to his face. They had always been somewhat too large on her small frame.

"Lothirien, you cannot come," he protested softly, drawing near. Seeing her in this decidedly unfinished stage of dressing stirred his blood, and his thoughts flashed back to the unforgettable night they had shared. He had an hour. Surely they could give each other a few minutes, at least before he left her for how long, none knew.

"Lothirien," he murmured, drawing close and reaching out for her hand.

"Who are you, to tell me I cannot?" she demanded testily, drawing her hand away from his so that she could push it through the sleeve of the tunic she was pulling over her head.

Haldir stepped back, startled as if doused with a cold bucket of water. "I am your husband, does that not count for something?" he snapped.

"Yes, my husband!" she interjected, turning on him, her hands upon her hips. "Not my _father_! You are not higher than I am. Yet you demand I stay behind while you know of a truth that I can handle myself well in a skirmish with orcs. You have seen it yourself."

"This is not a mere _skirmish_, Lothirien!" Haldir exclaimed, throwing his hands in the air, and striding vigorously about the room. "This is a war! The land is open and barren. It is not a small orc patrol we are going against. There are thousands! And there are no trees to flee to. You could die!"

"And so could you!" she shot back. "How do you think I feel? You are prepared to march out to Rohan, to throw yourself heroically to the orcs, yet you demand that I stay behind. You are inconsistent, Haldir. I am as skilled as you, and you know this."

"I am well aware of your skills." Haldir seethed. "But if we were in combat, I would be worried about you. I would be so afraid for you, that I would not be watching my business, and both of us would probably be killed."

"There would be no reason for you to be any more worried about me than Rumil, or Orophin." She snapped. "Why would you not be able to treat us all the same?"

Haldir's eyes flashed. "Because _you_ are my _wife_!"

"You mean because I am a woman?" she demanded. "Why must you judge me as inferior because I am not a man?"

"I didn't say that!" Haldir retorted. "All I mean, is that I want to protect you! Women are not meant to go to such a war as this!"

"Then why did you not vehemently protest when Lalaith went away?" she demanded, lowering her tone to nearly normal.

"Because I am not in love with Lalaith!" he said through teeth that were crushed together.

"Oh, but did Prince Legolas demand that she stay behind?" she exclaimed, rolling her eyes, her voice rising again. "No! For he knows that she is as skilled as he. I can spar better than anyone in Lórien, except, perhaps, you. I have never used womanhood as an excuse to cower within the safety of our city. I have proven myself time and again against the orcs who have invaded our borders. I have as much right to fight as any man in these woods! As my husband, my equal, you cannot decree what I will and will not do!"

"That is true. As your husband, I cannot." He sighed his voice lowered to almost normal, and then slowly he added with a hint of a smile, "But as the March Warden of Lothlórien, I can decide who goes, and who stays to watch the borders."

She drew in a sharp, angry breath, suddenly realizing he was right, and with that, she sat hard upon their bed, and folded her arms tightly.

"Can you not understand?" she demanded, her eyes furiously burning holes in his face. "I am as afraid for you as you are, for me. How can that be different?"

"What if you are carrying our child?" His angry tone had vanished entirely, and now his voice was soft and weary.

"I have not conceived after one night." she huffed.

"Perhaps," he agreed with a soft, almost sad sigh. "But it is a good excuse to keep you here."

She shook her head, and lowered her eyes from him to show him her displeasure.

"You are angry with me, I see," he muttered sadly. "Can you not find it in your heart to forgive me? To try and understand why I am doing this?"

She looked away from him, scowling hard at the wall.

"No? Perhaps not." he murmured softly, as if talking to himself. "But you will be safe. I at least, have that one comfort."

He turned and sought for the latch to their bedroom door, as if he were groping in the darkness. His expression was one of weary, grey pain, but he finally managed to draw the door open.

But before he stepped out, he paused and looked back. "I am sorry I have made you angry." He gulped in a dry throat, and finished, "I love you, Lothirien. And I will love you forever."

His eyes lingered long over her stiff and unyielding form, then trailed over their shared bed. And then he turned, and went out, and shut the door.

The sound of soft weeping reached her ears as Lothirien, her form enclosed in a sliver cloak against the cool chill of the night, stopped on the bottom of her steps, waiting to alight onto the soft grass of the forest floor. She raised her eyes from the untouched wine goblet in her hand toward the sound, and saw one of her friends, Vanarwen, and her husband, Thalion, whom Lothirien had known since they were young Elves. Thalion was only a few decades younger than Lothirien, and Vanarwen a century or two younger than him. She was due to give birth soon, and Lothirien could see the curve of her belly beneath the silver gown and cloak her friend wore.

The couple were standing a short distance away upon a moonwashed trail; they had not noticed Lothirien yet, and Vanarwen was clinging, inconsolably to his shoulder. He wore armor, and a hooded cloak of twilight blue clasped about his shoulders. Over one shoulder, he carried a bow, and a helmet was tucked under his arm.

Thalion was speaking to her in low tones, running his hands along her arms as he moved reluctantly away from her. "I must go now, Vana. The others are mustering. I must go."

"I don't want you to go." His wife wept, clinging to his hand as he moved away. "What if the baby comes while you are gone?"

"I know. I know. I want to stay," he returned helplessly. "But I must do this, for you," he placed a hand gently against the curve of her stomach, "and our little one."

Vanarwen began weeping bitterly at this, and Lothirien could feel tears pushing into her own eyes as well. The farewell between Vanarwen and Thalion had been what should have happened between herself and Haldir. She sighed unhappily. Haldir only wanted to protect her, yet she had not seen it. In her fear and frustration, she had allowed their disagreement to erupt into a shouting match. And as she remembered their exchange of words, she realized with chagrin, that the greater part of the fault lay with her. Haldir wanted to protect her, not control her. And in the end, he had tried to make peace. But she had not accepted it. Oh, what had she done?

Thalion kissed his weeping wife lightly, and at last pulled himself from her grasp, and strode away, a look of torn grieving upon his face.

"Thalion?" Vanarwen called out, pleading. But though he flinched, an agonized look crossing his face, he did not turn back.

With that, Vanarwen turned and fled the other way, her bitter weeping still echoing through the trees.

Thalion glanced at Lothirien and nodded curtly, muttering a half hearted greeting.

Lothirien could see the raw emotion starkly in his eyes as he strode past. He was not far from weeping himself, she realized. It was perhaps one of the most difficult things he had ever done, to leave his expectant wife, whose muffled weeping still echoed softly through the silver lit trees. She turned to watch after him. He had almost disappeared beyond bend in the path, before she dropped down to the grass at her feet, and scurried to catch up with him, careful to keep the wine in the glass she held from spilling out.

"Thalion, wait a moment," she called out, and the Elf reluctantly stopped.

"What is it, Lothirien?" he asked wearily, turning as she approached him. His eyes spoke clearly enough; she was making this more difficult for him, and he wished to be off as quickly as possible.

"Here," she said without preamble, holding out the wine filled goblet. "For good luck."

He glanced down at the goblet questioningly. "Why-,"

"Just take it. Drink it, and then you can go," she ordered him, shoving the goblet impatiently into his hands.

With a sigh of exasperation, Thalion lifted the glass and downed it in one gulp.

"There. Are you satisfied now, Lothirien?" he asked testily, handing the goblet back to her. "May I go now?"

"No, wait just a moment," she said, and drew in a deep breath.

He rolled his eyes. "For what? I am already late. I cannot-," He stopped midsentence, and blinked his eyes hard as if suddenly confused. He wavered on his feet, and his questioning eyes found Lothirien's.

"For that," she said quietly.

Struggling to understand, Thalion's eyes, though swiftly dimming, grew wide with realization. "You put something in the wine, Lothirien."

"Indeed." She reached out and clasping his arm to steady him. "Come. Sit down here." She guided him like a tottering child to a large stone that sat just off the trail where he collapsed heavily.

"Why?" he drawled.

"You do want to stay with Vanarwen, do you not?"

"That was a foolish thing to do, Lothirien," he mumbled trying to sound angry, though his words were quickly becoming garbled. The sleeping herb Lothirien had put into the wine, was taking quick effect. "Who will take my place?"

"I will," she said pertly, sliding the helmet from his weakened hands, and studying it. It would partially cover her face when she put it on, and hopefully, she would not be recognized unless someone looked directly at her face.

"No." He shook his head angrily and attempted to rise, though he stumbled drunkenly and fell quickly back. "You could be hurt, or worse. I would never agree to that."

"I know, my friend." She sighed, patting his shoulder gently. "That's why I had to resort to this. You wish to stay with Vanarwen, while my heart's longing is to go with Haldir."

Thalion blinked at her stupidly, and clumsily shook his head. "You will be discovered before you have gone ten leagues." His words were so drawled, she could barely understand them.

"Perhaps," Lothirien agreed sadly. "But I could not forgive myself if I did not try."

Thalion blinked at her through eyes that probably saw little more than a blur, now. He opened his mouth to say something more, but it did not come out. Instead, he toppled heavily over, rolled off the stone, and fell into a cushion of fallen leaves beside it.

"Sleep well, Thalion." Lothirien murmured, pulling his helmet over her head as she studied his heavily unconscious face. Then unclasping her silver cloak, she pulled it away, revealing her own armor, and her bow and other weapons slung at her side. Setting her own cloak, and the empty wine glass upon the stone beside him, she finished, "Now, if you will but permit me to borrow your cloak, I will be off."


	13. Chapter 13

**Lalaith Elerrina-Daughter of Valinor - Chapter 11**

**October 11, 2003**

_Submitted By Lalaith-Elerrina_

Chapter 11

"Look!" Pippin chirped. "There's smoke to the south."

Lalaith lifted her head at Pippin's exclamation from where she was perched on a gnarled growth of branches behind Treebeard's neck. The little blanket Treebeard had returned to her, she had folded tied it over her hips. Beside her, clinging to a branch as Treebeard swayed back and forth with each step, sat Merry, and Pippin below them, had chosen the branch that Lalaith had decided was Treebeard's right shoulder as his roost.

Sure enough, as her eyes scanned the distant sky, there was a mist of thick black smoke rising high as Pippin had said, like a sinister apparition, clawing at the air beyond the trees south of the path Treebeard was taking. It filled Lalaith with a fearful premonition. Such a sight could not bode well.

"There is always smoke rising," Treebeard wheezed in his deep, slow voice, "from Isengard these days."

"Isengard?" Merry spouted, his eyes fixed intently on the distant haze of smoke.

"For what purpose?" Lalaith wondered out loud to herself. "What is Saruman doing?"

"I do not know." Treebeard breathed slowly. "But there was a time when Saruman would walk in my woods. And now, no more. He has a mind of metal and wheels."

Unsatisfied with Treebeard's answer, Lalaith scrambled to her feet, and hopped up to his topmost branches to peer out over the tops of the trees into the valley that led away from Isengard. Following her lead, Merry and Pippin clambered up too, clutching carefully at each branch, and swaying from side to side with Treebeard's every step.

"He no longer cares for growing things." Rumbled Treebeard wistfully.

As they came, Lalaith reached down and clasped Pippin's hand to help him. His foot slipped a fraction, and Lalaith tightened her grip on his arm, holding his weight as he found his balance again, and stepped up beside her where he wrapped his arms firmly around a branch, smiling his thanks at her.

She returned a grin, her eyes flashing over the Hobbit for a moment, wondering to herself if his increased stature she noticed was not in her imagination. Merry too, she thought, as she glanced at the other Hobbit, seemed taller. She was certain of it. As tall as Gimli, or perhaps taller, if that were possible. But how could it be? Bilbo had told her that he'd never seen a Hobbit in all his days who could equal a Dwarf in height. Hobbits made up the difference in brains, he'd told her jokingly. So perhaps it was just her imagination.

She turned her eyes back onto the valley, to see a distant mass that looked at first, like a great dirty river, flowing slowly along. But as her elven eyes flashed along the great mass, she could see now, armored uruks, brandishing a great forest of spears. And now, as the wind changed, she could hear the rhythmic tramping beat of many thousands of marching, iron shod feet, and smell, too, the bitter acrid scent of evil.

"Uruks." She muttered, her voice flat, belying the fear she felt at the sight of them, even from this distance. "Thousands of them. Like the large ones who captured us."

"It's Saruman's army." Merry muttered, his voice low, though filled with anxiety. "The war has started."

Lalaith drew in a ragged, broken breath. Straining her eyes, she could see the foremost edge of the long river of orcs, uncountable, marching away, and toward the lands of Rohan.

Where in all that vast land, was Legolas? Was he, perchance in Rohan? Did he know of the danger that was coming?

Lalaith sighed brokenly to herself, and reached into her tunic for the medallion, which she drew out, and fingered thoughtfully, closing her eyes, and letting her mind carry her away.

An image formed in her mind, a deep ravine, set back within the wall of a ragged cliff. And within the cliff, as if it had been carved from the raw stone itself, sat a great fortress. A great oak gate led out onto a narrow bridge, over which a band of ragged, weary looking humans, were plodding into the fortress. And as her mind's sight carried her over the stone walls and into the fortress, she could see at last, Legolas. He was alive, though weary, as he dismounted a proud looking cream colored horse, much like Rána in appearance. Gimli was there, too, and the two, though they were clearly in unhappy spirits, they seemed to be well. Around them, wounded men were being lifted off of horses, and limped, or were carried away, perhaps to have their wounds treated. But neither Gimli nor Legolas seemed to have been hurt in whatever battle they had been engaged in.

Gimli stood, leaning heavily upon his axe beside a slender young human woman, fair skinned and pretty with long golden hair, who was seated upon a woven basket, staring at nothing. The poor thing seemed to be in shock, her eyes red rimmed, shone with tears that would not fall, and Lalaith felt a surge of pity for her.

But at least Legolas was well, and alive, safe at least for now. Lalaith opened her eyes, dropping the medallion back beneath her tunic, where it rested cool, upon her skin.

But then her smile fell away as she gazed out over the slowly moving river of orcs that rolled along like a seething, poisonous river. Aragorn, she realized now, with a touch of alarm, had not been with Legolas.

"Aragorn!" She gasped out loud.

"What was that?" Merry asked.

"Aragorn, where are you?" She demanded to the air, pressing a hand against her head.

Pippin and Merry glanced at each other. "Isn't he with Legolas and Gimli?" Pippin answered quietly, but Lalaith simply ignored him.

"_Nana_, where is he?" She pleaded, changing her tongue to Elvish, and peering out into the distance beyond the line of orcs wending into the distance as if she fully expected to see Aragorn somewhere out in that vastness where even her elven sight could not reach.

"_My dear one, thou fearest for the life of one who is but a mortal_?" The voice resounded in her mind, and Lalaith knew it was Elbereth, her mother.

"He is also my friend. And a good man." She pleaded to the air as Merry and Pippin beside her, traded a confused glance. "I have loved him like a brother for as long as I have known him. And my cousin Arwen has given him her heart. She would be lost without him. Where is he? If he is in danger, or injured, can you not spare him?"

"_My dear daughter_." Elbereth's voice resounded in her mind, filled with happy pride. "_The thoughts of Arwen, daughter of Elrond have been with him as well. And his mission is not yet complete. Thy heart is well placed, and I will do as thou hast asked_."

The voice of Elbereth finished in an almost playful tone, "_There is little that thy father and I could deny thee, if what thou wishest is also the will of Ilúvatar_."

Lalaith smiled as the voice faded away, but jumped with a start of surprise as Pippin's hand shot to her face and touched her forehead.

"Who on earth were you talking to?" He asked, as her eyes focused on his worried little face. "You're not feverish. That's good."

"Oh, Pippin. I am not sick." Lalaith sighed, then uttered a short laugh as she leaned forward and planted a kiss on the Hobbit's smooth cheek. "But you are sweet to worry."

She turned forward then, focusing her eyes away from the ominous river of orcs disappearing into the distance, and upon the green tops of trees along the path Treebeard was marching. His wooden feet struck the ground with low, steady, sonorous beats toward their destination.

Legolas sat despondently upon a great wooden chest outside the great hall where the king was sitting in council with Gamling, and others of his men. Perhaps he should have joined them, Legolas thought with a touch of chagrin. But for the moment, he could not bring himself to think of the cold realities that surrounded him. He could only stare at the delicate necklace of the Evenstar in his hand, and wonder how he could ever tell Elrond's other daughter that her lover was dead. And how would he tell Lalaith? She had loved Aragorn like a brother, and the news would be a painful blow. But would he even live long enough to give them such bitter news? Would he ever see Lalaith's face again outside of his own memories? It was a very real possibility that he might die before he ever saw her again.

Death he did not fear, but what he would not have if death claimed him, did frighten him. His thoughts strayed to Lalaith, glad, for once, that she was not with him, and safe away from all of this. He closed his eyes, and pictured her face in his favorite memories of her, scenes from her childhood, when he had been a friend to her, and as she had slowly grown and become a woman.

He remembered vividly the first time he realized fully that she was more than a child, and that his feelings for her had grown into something more than friendship. It had been many centuries before when he had come to Imladris to see her. It was a cool spring night, and they were walking alone in the gardens surrounded as ever, by the silent whisper of the falls.

He had arrived in the morning as the sun rose into the sky, and they had spent the day together, sometimes in talk, but most often in contented, companionable silence, simply happy to be together.

There had been a feast and dancing later in the evening, and the two had been inseparable, eating side by side, and dancing only with each other.

The night had grown late, far into the early morning hours, and he could tell she was weary as they walked along, arm in arm beneath the stars that seemed to shimmer even more brilliantly than usual, for she walked close to him, her fingers woven tightly within his as her head rested against his shoulder.

"_Come Lalaith_," he had implored at last, drawing her toward a stone bench set beside the path. "_Come and sit. Rest a moment_."

She had not argued as he drew her down beside him, and gently eased her head against his shoulder, marveling at how contented her presence made him feel. Her soft, sky blue gown had whispered quietly as she settled beside him, and her long unbound hair, garlanded with a cheerful crown of new spring flowers brushed cool against his cheek.

"_Oh, Legolas_," she had sighed, "_I will never fully understand why you are so kind to me. But I suppose I need not understand. I am simply glad you are my friend._" She smiled a weary, sleepy smile up at him. "_I love you._" She had yawned, before settling again against his shoulder, and fading quietly into her dreams.

He had sat long, staring down at her, perplexed as to why her words had caused such a wonderfully confusing sensation within him. How many times in her life had she told him those very words in friendship and sweet childish gratitude? He could not count them all. But never until now, had the utterance of such words caused such a joyful disturbance to his mind and heart.

As he remained beside her, his arm about her shoulders, gazing down into her star speckled eyes that gazed contentedly off at nothing, a realization settled quietly upon him. It came as gently and as expectedly as the gradual sunrise that he knew would come in only a few short hours.

"_Lalaith_," he murmured softly, but she did not stir. Brushing her smooth brow with his lips, he drew her closer, and whispered, "_I love you, too_." And knew he meant it.

"He's alive!" A woman's startled voice accompanied the clatter of horse's hooves upon stone, lifting up from the crowd beyond the pillared portico where he sat, jarring him from his memory. Legolas' eyes rose to see a Man, dirty and disheveled, a ragged red wound upon his shoulder, slide from the back one of the horses they had thought lost in the battle. Brego was its name, he remembered. But the Man-, Legolas leapt to his feet as he heard Gimli's muffled voice coming from beyond the packed stand of humans.

"Where is he?" The Dwarf grumbled. "Where is he? Get out of the way! I'm going to kill him!"

Legolas grinned as Gimli burst out of the crowd, before Aragorn, his squat, dwarfish face aglow with joy. "You are the luckiest, the canniest, and the most reckless man I ever knew." He crowed happily, stepping forward, and throwing his arms around Aragorn. "Bless you, laddie!"

"Gimli, where is the king?" Aragorn asked, his voice as always, calm and subdued.

The Dwarf, his face still beaming, nodded through the portico toward the great doors, and with a thump of gratitude on Gimli's shoulder, Aragorn stepped away, striding straight toward Legolas, though he did see him yet, for his head was down as he fumbled with his sword belt.

Legolas watched Aragorn approach, smiling as he came to within a pace of him before Aragorn sensed someone, and drew to a surprised stop, his eyes lifting at last, to find the Elf before him.

"You're late." Legolas informed him, his mouth pulling into a restrained grin. His eyes again flashed over Aragorn's disheveled appearance, and his torn ragged shoulder, and changing his words into those of the Common Tongue, added, "You look terrible."

At this, Aragorn's mouth drew up into a smile, and the two friends chuckled, clapping each other firmly upon the shoulder.

"I have something of yours." Legolas continued, reverting again to Elvish. He sensed movement to his left, and out of the corner of his eye, he saw the lady Éowyn drawing near. But she stopped as the necklace of the Evenstar slipped from his hand into Aragorn's.

Aragorn opened his hand, and the shining jewel caught in the light. Legolas grinned as the Man clenched his jaw, repressing his emotion at having such a valued gift returned at last, when he had surely feared it lost.

"Thank you." He murmured, and Legolas nodded his welcome.

"The king will be glad to see you." Legolas said with a grin, and stepped to the side, nodding at the great double doors where two helmeted soldiers stood guard.

Aragorn clapped Legolas' shoulder gratefully, and continued on toward the doors, but Legolas paused a moment, and lifted his eyes toward the lady. Éowyn's face was bright with happy relief as her gaze followed Aragorn. But there were tears shining in her eyes, and hint of sadness in the smile that pulled at the corners of her mouth.

Legolas wondered at the conflicting emotions that played across the lady's countenance, but could not interpret them. And so at last, he turned, and followed after Aragorn.


	14. Chapter 14

**Merry Christmas!**

**Lalaith Elerrina-Daughter of Valinor - Chapter 12**

**October 13, 2003**

_Submitted By Lalaith-Elerrina_

Disclaimer: LOTR is the creation of J.R.R. Tolkien.

Announcement: I hope you are all enjoying the story. If you would like to check out my own original works, you may read about my books on Amazon, under my real name, Loralee Evans. Their titles are The Birthright, and The King's Heir, and they are published by Cedar Fort, Inc.

Chapter 12

"A great host, you say?"

Though Théoden stood with his back toward Legolas and the others, Legolas knew that the king's face, lined with age and worries, was even more furrowed now, for he could hear the tones of concern in his low, guarded voice.

"All Isengard is emptied," came Aragorn's calm words echoing softly in the great chamber.

"How many?"

The air here, within the king's chamber was musty, and smelled dry and unused. Dust motes swirled in the beams of light that streamed in through the windows high in the stone walls. It was warm, too for early March; the king's men, in full armor, had brows, damp with perspiration. But they did not show the discomfort they felt. They would not. They were a proud people, these Rohirrim.

"Ten thousand strong, at least." Was Aragorn's calm answer.

"Ten thousand?" Théoden hissed in disbelief, turning to face them again as he cast a furrowed glance at Aragorn.

"It is an army bred for a single purpose." Aragorn replied. "To destroy the world of Men."

As a look of subdued dismay cast itself across Théoden's features, Aragorn added in a somber whisper, "They will be here by nightfall."

At these words, a desperate, determined look took possession of the king's face, and as he turned and strode toward the doors, his voice rang out through the hall, "Let them come!"

"They will break upon this fortress like water on rock." Théoden's voice rang out as he strode though an archway that led out upon the inner wall of the Keep. Aragorn, Legolas and Gimli followed behind, as well as Gamling, a step behind the Dwarf.

"Saruman's hordes will pillage and burn." Théoden said as Aragorn, with Legolas a step behind him, followed the king down a set of worn stone steps. "We've seen it before."

Legolas could hear the confident ring in Théoden's tone, and shook his head subtly. He lifted his eyes as Aragorn glanced over his shoulder, and by the look upon the Man's face, he could see that Aragorn's thoughts were his own. Théoden sounded too confident. Legolas could hear Gimli's heavy steps clomping behind him, and wondered if the Dwarf was still stinging from Théoden's reprimand at the gate. So quickly Théoden had tossed aside Gimli's suggestion that perhaps the uruk-hai were a force to fear, that Legolas had come to the conclusion that Théoden, as battle hardened as he was, knew nothing of this new vile creature of Saruman's making. He had seemed to think it was nothing more than a trivial band of orcs out to raid a few horses.

Legolas offered a silent nod to Aragorn's troubled glance.

"Crops can be resown, homes rebuilt." Théoden was continuing as the group marched around the curve of the wall, and past a group of three armored soldiers.

As the king strode past them, the men followed him with their eyes, almost like small children, seeking reassurance from something that they feared.

"Within these walls," Théoden continued boldly, "we will outlast them."

"They do not come to destroy Rohan's crops or villages." Aragorn countered at last, voicing the thoughts that had been roiling in Legolas' mind as well. "They come to destroy its people. Down to the last child."

As these words came forth, Théoden turned, a fierce light in his eyes as he stepped back to Aragorn, and grasped his arm.

"What would you have me do?" He demanded in a hiss of a whisper. "Look at my men. Their courage hangs by a thread! If this is to be our end, then I would have them make such an end as to be worthy of remembrance!"

Théoden dropped Aragorn's arm at this, and turned away.

"Send out riders my lord." Aragorn insisted, to which Théoden again turned back, his eyes burning fiercely now. "You must call for aid."

"And who will come?" Théoden asked, stepping back, his face furrowed in a look of morbid humor. "Elves? Dwarves?" He nodded over Aragorn's shoulder at Legolas who stood behind, and at Gimli beside him. "We are not so lucky in our friends as you. The old alliances are dead." The last word fell like a heavy stone from the king's lips, and Legolas knew that Théoden was not as truly assured as he sounded. He wore a face of confidence for the sake of his men, for he knew they looked to him as their king for guidance. But inwardly he was as unsure as the smallest lad still fit for battle.

"Gondor will answer." Aragorn declared with surety.

"Gondor?" Théoden spat back, fuming. "Where was Gondor when the Westfold fell? Where was Gondor when our enemies closed in around us? Where was Gon-," Théoden quickly glanced down, stifling his fury, though there was still a fierce desperate fire in his eyes as he glanced back up at Aragorn.

"No, my Lord Aragorn," he said in a voice that was soft, yet somehow more terrible than the words he had spoken in anger. "We are alone."

With that he turned and strode away, leaving Aragorn standing where he was.

Gamling darted past him after the king, but Aragorn remained alone, making no effort to follow. Legolas, his heart weighted as a stone, dropped his eyes to the rock of the parapet beneath his feet. But as he heard a loud harsh cry high in the still air above him, he lifted his eyes to see great flocks of black crebain circling above them in the sky, their harsh caws falling down upon the stones of the Hornburg, and upon the people huddled within its walls like drops of bitter, burning rain.

"Treebeard, I remember you said something once of Entwives." Lalaith asked from the spot on the branch where she sat behind Treebeard's head with the Hobbits with Merry above and Pippin below her as they swayed back and forth with each step booming the great Ent took, on his path through the grey green shadows of the forest. "Are they Ent women?"

"Ah, yes." Boom Treebeard. "The Entwives. And there were Entmaidens too, back when the world was young."

"So women Ents are called Ent_wives_?" Pippin asked from his perch near Treebeard's shoulder.

"Indeed." Rumbled the Ent in fond recollection. "Ah, the loveliness of Fimbrethil!"

"But you're not called an Ent_husband_, are you?" Pippin asked again.

"Hoom," breathed Treebeard in a voice that said he had not expected such a question. "Well, no. I am merely an Ent. As are all male Ents called."

"But isn't that a bit chauvinistic?" Pippin chirped. "_Ow_!" This last word was spoken as Merry reached down and spatted the back of his head with his hand as he shot him a disapproving look.

"Hm hoom." Rumbled Treebeard. "I have never thought about it that way, before."

"Well, tell us about them." Lalaith exclaimed, shooting a quick look at Pippin.

"I fear that there is little to tell." Treebeard breathed slowly. "You see, we lost the Entwives."

"How very sad!" Said Pippin. "How was it that they all died?"

"They did not _die_!" Treebeard grumbled. "I never said _died_. We lost them, I said. And we cannot find them."

"How did you _lose_ them?" Gasped Pippin. "I should think it would be as easy to lose an Oliphaunt!"

"Hush, Pippin!" Lalaith and Merry hissed together.

"Well," Treebeard said after a pause. "It is a rather strange and sad story. When the world was young, and the woods were wide and wild, the Ents and the Entwives walked together and housed together. But our hearts did not go on growing in the same way.

The Ents loved the great trees, and the wild woods, and the slopes of the high hills; and they drank of the mountain streams, and ate only such fruit as the trees let fall in their path; and they learned of the Elves and spoke with the Trees. But the Entwives loved the smaller trees, and the meads in the sunshine beyond the feet of the forests and they saw the sloe in the thicket and the wild apple and the cherry blossoming in the spring, and the green herbs in the waterlands in summer, and the seeding grasses in the autumn fields. So the Entwives made gardens to live in. But we Ents went on wandering, and we came to the gardens only now and again. Then when the Darkness came in the North, the Entwives crossed the Great River, and made new gardens, and tilled new fields, and we saw them more seldom. After the Darkness was overthrown the land of the Entwives blossomed richly. Many Men learned the crafts of the Entwives and honored them greatly. But then-, I remember it was long ago, desire came over me to see Fimbrethil again. Very fair she was still in my eyes. We crossed the Anduin and came to their land; but we found it a desert: it was all burnt and uprooted, for a war had passed over it, and the Entwives were not there. Long we called and long we searched; and we asked all folk that we met which way the Entwives had gone. Some said they had seen them walking away west, and some said east and others south. But nowhere we went, could we find them. Our sorrow was very great. Yet the wild wood called, and we returned to it. And now the Entwives are only a memory for us, and our beards are long and grey. Hoom hoom."

Treebeard sighed, and paused a long while before he spoke again. "We keep to the trees now, and concern ourselves will little else. We Ents have not troubled about the wars of Men and wizards for a very long time." He paused again as he strode out of the thick of the trees into the sunlight of a smooth grass-clad clearing, the sides sloped down and inward, making the clearing almost as round as a bowl. In almost the exact center of the grassy bowl, was a great stone, pointed and jutting up from the ground, reminding Lalaith of a great sundial's hand.

"But now," Treebeard breathed, "something is about to happen that has not happened for an age." He rumbled slowly in his throat before he added, "Entmoot."

"What's that?" Asked Merry.

"'Tis a gathering." Rumbled Treebeard.

"A gathering of what?" Merry asked again.

But Lalaith had already guessed, for as Merry had been speaking, she had heard, beneath his questions, the resonant boom of many striding Ent feet drawing closer through the trees. And now, as Merry and Pippin lifted their heads and looked around, she could see that they too heard, and could see now, numerous tree-ish creatures, as different from Treebeard in appearance as one tree from another, stepping out of the forest shadows and drawing in a close circle around Treebeard.

"Beech. Oak. Chestnut. Ash. Good. Good, good." Treebeard rumbled as his fellow Ents drew close and stopped. "Many have come."

Their great golden eyes gazed upon Lalaith and the Hobbits with wise curiosity, and uttered soft rumbles to each other in their own slow language.

"Now we must decide," Treebeard breathed in his deep throaty voice, "if the Ents will go to war."

Lalaith smiled to herself, and traded a hopeful grin with Merry. If the Ents did decide to go to war, as they surely would, then Saruman and his minions would surely be defeated.


	15. Chapter 15

**Lalaith Elerrina-Daughter of Valinor - Chapter 13**

**October 16, 2003**

_Submitted By Lalaith-Elerrina_

Chapter 13

"Ah, look at that." Pippin cooed where he sat beside Merry at the edge of the clearing as he turned to look at Lalaith where she sat half inclined against an old gnarled tree's roots. Her little blanket was wrapped snuggly about her shoulders, her breath was slow and deep, and her eyes stared straight ahead, unfocused. "She's sleeping!"

"How can you tell?" Merry asked, turning away from the low melodic conversation of the Ents in the middle of the clearing, to glance at the sleeping Elf maiden.

"Like this!" Pippin grinned, then cupping his hands around his mouth, he shouted, "_Lalaith_!"

"Good gracious, Pippin!" Merry scolded fiercely, but Lalaith did no more than stir a little and grin in her sleep. The conversation of the Ents did not seem to waver either, though Pippin's near shriek still echoed through the trees; they were all chanting together in a long rising and falling rhythm, now louder on one side of the ring, now dying away there and rising to a great boom on the other side. The sound was very pleasant and melodic, Pippin decided. It was no wonder Lalaith had fallen asleep, even though it was still mid-day. Especially if she was still healing from that arrow wound. Of course, he shrugged to himself, with Gandalf's power, and her own elven healing, it was probably all better already. It probably wouldn't even leave a scar.

"I wonder where Isengard is?" Yawned Pippin.

"I don't know quite where we are," said Merry, "but that peak," he pointed to a high white peak they could see jutting above the towering green trees about them, "is probably Methedras, and as far as I can remember the ring of Isengard lies in a fork or deep cleft at the end of the mountains. It is probably down behind this great ridge. There still seems to be a smoke or haze over there, left of the peak, don't you think?"

"What is Isengard like?" Asked Pippin. "I wonder what Ents can do about it anyway."

"So do I." Said Merry. "Isengard is a sort of ring of rocks, I think, with a flat space inside and a tower in the middle, called Orthanc. It does not seem the sort of place that Ents would want to tackle. But I have an odd feeling about these Ents. They seem slow and queer and patient, almost sad; and yet I believe they _could_ be roused."

"Yes." Said Pippin. "I know what you mean. There might be all the difference between an old cow sitting and thoughtfully chewing, and a bull charging; and the change might come suddenly."

Before them, the voices of the Ents were still rising and falling in their conclave. The sun had now risen high enough to look down into the clearing, and lit the northward side of the clearing with a cool yellow light.

….

Lalaith was dreaming, she knew she was, for she had fallen asleep thinking of Legolas, against an old gnarled tree to the low soothing hum of the Ents' speech. Even now, she could hear the rolling rumble of their talk at the edge of her mind. But it did not feel like a dream. It seemed real.

She stood upon a high hill overlooking a clear lake below, very much like Nen Hithoel in shape, though its size was much smaller. A stand of thick green trees marched down the slope away from her toward the water's edge, and at her feet, leading down and away through the trees, was a narrow beaten path. Glancing down, she noticed that she wore a long ankle length sky blue gown, its scooped sleeves open at her elbows, and her feet were bare. Her hair hung loose about her shoulders, with a garland of new spring flowers resting upon her head.

She could feel a soft breeze as it stirred about her, and she shivered slightly in it, feeling the tingle as her skin prickled against the cool brush of air. Not knowing what else to do, she started down the path that lay at her feet, toward the edge of the water, her eyes gazing about her at the marvelous detail her dream was taking. She could hear the wash of the wind through the leaves overhead, and could see the dappled change in light as the sunlight danced through the fluttering leaves.

The path wore onward, weaving through the trees, ever downward, its slope easing at last as it came near to the edge of the water, and at last, the trees broke suddenly at a wide stretch of sandy shore. The sand was cool and dry between her bare toes here at the edge of the trees, and the water, cool and clear enough to see to the sandy bottom, lapped happily at the shore. Across the small lake, she could see a stony, pebble strewn shore, where more trees fanned up the side of a hill, giving the little lake a distinctive bowl shape. And further down the shoreline, seated just at the edge of the water, was an Elf, clothed in the greens and browns of the forest; the hair that lay against his back was smooth and golden. He sat with his arms resting on his knees, gazing contemplatively out over the water, flinging an occasional stone outward where it danced rapidly across the surface of the water.

Lalaith's heart leapt into her throat and she snatched up the hem of her gown, dashing toward him, joyfully screaming, "Legolas!" as she ran.

At the sound of his name, his gaze shot up and he leapt to his feet. "Lalaith?" He cried, his eyes wide with wonder as she came flying toward him across the sand.

"Oh, Legolas, I've missed you!" She exclaimed, throwing herself against his chest.

"And I, you." Legolas returned, catching her in his arms and clutching her close.

"I had hoped I would find you here." He choked, his emotions threatening to spill out as he held her against him. The feel of her soft warmth against him was too real to deny, though he knew it was a dream. "We are-," he tore his eyes from her and glanced around, "both asleep, I guess."

"Yes, we are." She smiled, as her hand strayed to the chain of the medallion that disappeared beneath the scooped neck of her gown, resting cool against the flesh between her young breasts. Strange that the medallion was here, in the dream with her. She bit her lip, and ran a finger thoughtfully along the chain that encircled her neck. "I have been able to sense you ever since we were parted. Sometimes only vaguely, and at other times, I have seen you, clearly in my mind."

"Yes. It has been so, for me as well." Legolas said, his words spoken almost sadly. He touched a hand to the spot on his chest where her necklace rested. "Whether it is the power of the Lady of the Wood, or by some gift of the Valar, I do not know. But I am glad for it, as I am glad that I was allowed to see you like this, once more. When they come, we will not hold them back long-,"

Lalaith wondered at these last unfinished words, but as Legolas turned his eyes upon her, the love that she saw in his gaze made her forget everything but that she was here, with him. They had not been parted many days, but in truth, it seemed as if an age had passed since she had seen him last.

"Legolas, I saw you in my mind, in a great fortress against a high cliff. Where is it?" She asked, her voice suddenly plaintive. "Are you safe? When will I see you again?"

At these words Legolas bowed his head, and sighed deeply. "The king of Rohan says that no enemy has ever breached the wall."

"You are in Rohan, then?" She muttered worriedly. "We saw uruk-hai, thousands of them marching toward-,"

"Hush," Legolas murmured, running his thumb over her lips, "hush, _Lalaith nin_." He wished to say more, but his constricted throat would not allow it. Instead, he drew close, gathered her face between his hands, and pressed his lips against hers. His mouth was soft, and endearingly shy, yet lingering, giving both of them the chance to explore the sweetness of the kiss together. Legolas' hands moved to her shoulders, then circled around her and pulled her against him, while her own hands slid up his chest and around his neck.

It was an effort for Lalaith to think through her muddled thoughts. She barely had the will to turn her head aside enough to breath, "Legolas, I am afraid for you."

"Don't be." He whispered softly as his mouth, displaced from her own, trailed then, from her cheek to her throat.

Lalaith shivered as a tremulous sigh escaped her. The warmth of his breath, and his lips nuzzling the soft flesh of her throat were intoxicating. Why was he making it so difficult for her to think?

"Legolas." She complained, forcing herself at long last, to step reluctantly back, away from the warmth of his embrace. "Where are you? Are you in danger? What of Gimli and Aragorn? And Frodo and Sam? Tell me of them."

Legolas blinked hard for a moment as he looked hard at her as he mulled over her question in his mind. "Frodo and Sam crossed Nen Hithoel the day we were separated." He said after a long pause, then added, "Aragorn and Gimli are with me."

"And?" She pressed impatiently. "The fortress I saw. It is in Rohan? Will it hold back all the uruks?"

His eyes trailed over her face, brimming with love and longing as he murmured, "You are safe?"

"Yes, I am safe enough." She gulped and nodded. "Merry and Pippin are with me. And-, an old friend. Honest hearted, and trustworthy. He has taken good care of us."

Legolas nodded. It was Treebeard she was speaking of.

"But what of you?" She demanded, returning to her own question, and catching his hands in a grip that was surprisingly strong for her small slender fingers. "Tell me! Where are you? Are you with the Rohirrim? Do they have sufficient numbers to hold back the uruks? Tell me!"

"The horse lords are a proud people." Legolas said quietly, almost to himself. "They will not fall easily."

Lalaith sighed unhappily and shook her head. Why was he skirting her questions?

"Oh Legolas, why-," she began, intending to demand that he answer her inquiries, but instead, her words fell away and her breath caught in her throat as Legolas lifted her hands to his face, and gently kissed her knuckles and lifted his eyes to hers.

"I love you." He murmured, his gaze filled with such love and longing, that she could not speak. "But I cannot stay. I should go, now. They will have need of my bow, soon."

With these words, Legolas drew back from her, and his image wavered and began to fade, as if he were suddenly no longer solid.

"Wait, no! Can you tell me nothing?" She pleaded, suddenly desperate. She added with a faint, hopeful smile, "At least promise me you will kiss me like that, when we meet again in the waking world."

Legolas sighed, and spoke, his voice fading, "I love you, Lalaith."

And then he was gone, like a faint mist on a puff of wind, leaving her alone beside the cool lake, lapping unceasing at her feet.

Somehow, the scene looked not so beautiful as it had before, when he was in it. Lalaith sighed unhappily to herself, aware, once again, of the faint chanting of the Ents in the back of her mind. Merry and Pippin were with them, perhaps engaged once again, in a deep discussion over her sightless sleep.

A sad smile played at the corners of her lips. Thank the Valar for Merry and Pippin. And with that thought, she sighed, and willed herself awake.


	16. Chapter 16

**Lalaith Elerrina-Daughter of Valinor - Chapter 14**

**October 18, 2003**

_Submitted By Lalaith-Elerrina_

Chapter 14

The air within the crowded armory was close, and overly warm, heavy with the thick, bitter scent of fear.

Legolas stood beside Gimli near a corner of the wall, as men milled about the packed room, collecting the weapons and other gear that they would need to defend the fortress. A futile effort, Legolas thought darkly to himself. They would all be dead before the night was over, and Aragorn, Gimli and himself among them.

Legolas folded his arms across his chest and retreated into his own thoughts. It had been only a few hours before when he had been with Lalaith. He had sat down with his back against a pillar to rest for a moment, but he must have been more weary than he had first thought, and had slipped inadvertently into his dreams. And she had been there. As real to him as in the waking world. The feel of her, her scent, the taste of her kiss still seemed to linger about him as if he had indeed been with her as he had dreamed. Their minds must have been linked somehow. It had been too real to be otherwise. And wherever she was, surely she carried in her mind the same memories he did. He prayed that she did, for though his arms ached to hold her again, he knew he never would. Death had never seemed more close or inescapable as it did now.

Legolas glanced away from his own thoughts for a moment, when he noticed a young man, a child really, no older than twelve or thirteen, struggling with a helmet that was too big for his little head. The look of babyish innocence had not even left the boy's large frightened eyes. He was barely taller than the sheathed sword that had been placed into his reluctant hands. Legolas shook his head to himself. Had that boy been born an Elf, he would be hardly older than a baby, barely tottering about with his plump little thumb still plopped in his mouth. What was such a child doing here, preparing himself to battle orcs twice his size, and ten times stronger? The boy would be slain before he had the chance to lift his weapon!

Legolas glanced darkly away, his eyes stopped at Aragorn who stood beside a rough wooden table, laden with notched and beaten swords that seemed so blunt, that they could not slice raw meat, let alone thick armored orc necks. Aragorn dropped the sword he had been studying with a clatter, and made his way back toward the Elf and Dwarf.

"Farmer, farriers, stable boys." He said in a low tone, glancing about the room, and back at Legolas. "These are no soldiers."

"Most have seen too many winters." Gimli grumbled where he stood by Legolas, leaning over his axe.

"Or too few." Legolas added, turning his eyes away from the boy as the lad, sensing someone's eyes on him, curiously glanced up.

"Look at them." He continued bitterly. "They're frightened. You can see it in their eyes."

As these words escaped his mouth, the low mumbling that had been rustling through the room, died suddenly as all eyes turned to him.

He turned and strode toward a rack of tarnished, beaten shields that looked as if they would crack at one blow, before turning back on Aragorn. "And they should be!" He fumed, changing from the Common Speech to his own tongue. No one in the room but Aragorn would understand his despairing words. "Three hundred," he spat, "against ten thousand?"

Aragorn glanced about, mildly defensive, before he spoke in Legolas' tongue, "They have more hope of defending themselves here than at Edoras-,"

"Aragorn," Legolas viciously shot back as he gave full vent to the feelings that he had kept bottled inside for so long, "They cannot win this fight." He seethed furiously. "They are all going to die!"

"Then I shall die as one of them!" Aragorn cried angrily, now in the Common Tongue, no longer caring that everyone could understand his words as he strode near to the Elf, and eyed Legolas evenly for a long moment. At last, Aragorn broke his gaze, and with a harsh breath of air, turned and marched away. The throng of old men their already bent backs bent even further with the weight of the armor they wore, and beardless children with swords longer than their own arms, parted as he strode past.

Where was he going? Legolas was not finished yet!

"Let him go, lad." He heard Gimli mutter beside him, and felt the Dwarf's hand on his arm, keeping him back even before he realized he had started after Aragorn. "Let him be."

Legolas frowned, and drew in a deep breath as he stared after Aragorn's back that was stiff with anger as the Man retreated. He had never seen his friend so livid as he was now. Perhaps, Legolas scoffed bitterly to himself, it was only because Aragorn was in denial of the truth that Legolas had stated so plainly. But then, as he clenched his jaw, thinking over the words he had just blurted in his thoughtless fury, perhaps Aragorn had a reason to be so angry. Perhaps there was more hope for them, than Legolas could now see. He glanced away as the hum in the room resumed, ignoring the occasional glances of annoyance that were cast in his direction. His eyes shot to the floor as he pictured her as she had been in their dream, flying joyfully over the sand like a sprightly little bird, the blue fabric of her gown catching in the wind about her shapely legs as she ran toward him. He could remember again, the feel of her against him, and once more taste her joyful response to his kiss. Perhaps the Valar had given him that time with her, not as a last fleeting gift, but as a reminder of what he fought for. Of why he should not give up hope.

…

Legolas had already donned his armor, a light shirt of mail beneath his tunic and jerkin, and leather shoulder guards that would not restrict the movement of his bow arm. But Aragorn had not yet finished strapping on his knifebelt around the leather vest and the thick shirt of chainmail he already wore as Elf came tentatively from behind. Upon a rough hewn table beside the human, his sheathed sword waited, and with a thoughtful twist of his jaw, Legolas picked this up.

As the Man turned, he paused in mild surprise to see the Elf offering the sheathed sword, hilt first, for him to take.

As Aragorn took the weapon from his hands, nodding his thanks, Legolas offered him a slim, contrite smile. "We have trusted you this far. You have not led us astray." He murmured, seeking for a sign of forgiveness in Aragorn's eyes. "Forgive me. I was wrong to despair."

Aragorn offered a gentle shake of his head as he slapped his chest gently with his fist in an elven salute. "There is nothing to forgive, Legolas." Aragorn murmured in softened elvish tones as he grasped Legolas' shoulder.

Legolas clapped his own hand warmly upon the Man's shoulder, his brow knitting with gratitude for his friend's generous heart as a new understanding passed between their eyes.

The sound of mail clinking heavily caught their attention, and Legolas glanced to his right to see Gimli hobble into view, struggling beneath a vast mail shirt, the greater part of it crunched up in his arms against his chest.

"We had time, I'd get this adjusted." He complained, letting the shirt fall, where it crashed about his feet, several inches to spare trailing about him on the ground. Legolas glanced at Aragorn and the two traded a silent, humorous glance.

"It's a little tight across the chest." The Dwarf grumbled, as Legolas and Aragorn indulged him with slight nods.

A sudden distant blast of a horn brought all their heads up at the sound that came echoing down into the cavernous armory, and a surge of excitement rose in Legolas at the welcome sound of an elvish horn blast.

"That is no orc horn!" He exclaimed to the others. And with a tightened grip upon his bow, he darted up the steep stone steps out of the firelit armory, and into the cool air of the cloudy, starless night.


	17. Chapter 17

**Lothirien of Lórien - Chapter 6**

**October 22, 2003**

_Submitted By Lalaith-Elerrina_

Chapter 6

Lothirien kept her eyes firmly fixed ahead of her, hoping that her countenance appeared more composed than she felt as she drew to a stop beneath the flickering torchlight within the close stone walls of the fortress the race of Men called Helm's Deep. How had she made it this far? The dark cloak and her armor concealed her long hair, and her womanly figure, while the helmet she wore covered much of her face, but not enough to hide her full lips, or her large eyes. Yet by some miracle, no one had uncovered her charade. Not even Haldir, her own husband, who stood not ten paces away, had found her out. Yet.

Lothirien sighed low as she blinked and turned her eyes upon her lover's back, swathed in a red cloak, his golden hair spilling down his broad shoulders. He stood facing the king of the Rohirrim, a Man with lines of care furrowing his noble face, whose expression carried now but little more than dumbfounded gratitude. The expressions on the faces of his men, mirrored his own, and Lothirien was amazed that so many of them were young, only boys, without even the first growth of beard that marked the beginning of their adulthood. Others, with beards of dirty grey, had gone far beyond their youth, and were growing bent with the feebleness that the lengths of years eventually brought to all humans. Yet they were all clad in armor, young and old, clutching weapons, prepared to fight.

"How is this possible?" The king asked as Haldir placed his hand upon his chest, and bowed his head in deference to the king. The king's words were spoken in the speech of Men, and Lothirien strained to understand him.

"I bring word from Elrond of Rivendell." Lothirien smiled at the mildly arrogant tone in Haldir's voice but quickly fought the smile back. "An alliance once existed between Elves and Men. Long ago, we fought, and died, together." As he said this, a rattle of footsteps upon stone clattered down from the steps above.

"We come to honor that allegiance." Haldir finished with a smile in his voice as Lord Aragorn appeared, Prince Legolas no more than a step behind him, trailed by the Dwarf, Gimli. Lothirien strained for a sight of Lalaith. If Prince Legolas was here, Lalaith would not be far away. She glanced eagerly at the archway through which the three had appeared. Surely Lalaith would emerge any moment. But she did not come.

Their faces were bright with wonder, as the king's was, and no trace of grief or despair marred the prince's face, so Lalaith, Lothirien assured herself, had not met some violent end. But where was she?

"Welcome, Haldir." Lord Aragorn greeted, darting eagerly down the steps, and pausing before him. The two saluted each other, before Aragorn, with a grin, lunged forward, and clasped the Elf in a firm hug. Lothirien stifled yet another smile as Haldir stiffened, clearly startled before he relaxed, and returned the hug, clapping Aragorn's back as he did. "You are most welcome." Lord Aragorn murmured again, now in the speech of Men.

Prince Legolas stepped forward then, and clasped Haldir's arm, his own eyes shining in welcome as the Elves about Lothirien, as one body, turned to face the King of Rohan. Startled, she spun, only slightly awkward, and thumped the bow she carried upon the stone beneath her feet as the others did. She glanced discreetly to one side and then the other to see if any one had noticed her momentary lag. But none seemed to.

"Where is Lalaith?" Haldir asked softly in Elvish beneath his breath, giving a voice to Lothirien's own question.

"Safe. Far from here, thankfully." Prince Legolas affirmed with a grin, then added as he lifted his eyes to the lines of cloaked Elves. "And your lady?" His eyes flashed over hers and paused momentarily, his brows knitting, before he glanced back at Haldir.

"Lothirien remains in the Golden Wood." Lothirien could hear the relief in Haldir's voice, and her heart twinged with guilt. "Though she was most reluctant to be left behind."

Legolas nodded. "Then she is much like Lalaith, in mind and in heart." He said, as he once again clapped Haldir's arm, then turned away to stand at the shoulder of his fellow Elf, and face the king.

Haldir returned to the speech of Men as he faced the king and, with a lift of his chin, announced, "We are proud to fight alongside Men once more."

Lothirien smiled, for indeed she was proud to be here. Having seen children, infants really, who were clad in armor and ready to die, she did not regret coming. She drew in a sigh, and lowered her eyes to the stone at her feet, and as she did, she missed the questioning glance that Prince Legolas threw over his shoulder as he turned and glanced back, directly at her.

….

Lothirien stood alone in the armory of the Rohirrim, hoping her momentary absence would not be noticed. She had removed the dark cloak she had been careful to keep hooded since she had left Lothlórien, and was examining her mottled reflection in a polished shield that lay propped against the wall in the nearly empty room. Her helmet sat beside her upon a wooden table, and she studied the full contours of her face freely. She wondered why she felt so strangely ill in her stomach, but was sure it was due to the fear that pulsed through her at the thought of the coming orcs. Or perhaps because she was separated from the Golden Wood, the trees she loved, where she had been born.

Thankfully, the mild nausea tightening her stomach did not show upon her face, and she turned her attention upon her hair as it spilled about her shoulders and down her back, far longer than it should be, if she were a man. She sighed, berating herself for not having had the courage to cut it to her shoulders before she left. But her sword was sharp enough to do the work now, and so she slowly drew it from its sheath, the soft sliding of the metal echoing loudly in the still quiet until she held it free in her hand.

Drawing in another great breath for courage, she reached behind her neck with her free hand, and twisted her golden hair into one thick rope over her shoulder, as she lifted her blade.

"My lady, that is not necessary."

Lothirien dropped her blade that fell with an echoing clatter against the stone floor, and spun to see Prince Legolas standing upon the stone steps that had been carved into the very rock of the cleft that curved up and around, out of her sight, into the night air.

"My lord, you frightened me." She gasped, retrieving her sword and resheathing it.

The Prince of Mirkwood bowed his head slightly, his eyes glancing away from her almost guiltily.

"You saw me." She said in a low voice. "You saw my face, and recognized me."

"I did, my lady." He said, bobbing his head again, a pained expression upon his face.

"You were easy to see. Your husband and your comrades were clearly distracted by their many other worries to not have noticed you before now."

"Oh, Lord Legolas," Lothirien gasped pleadingly, "you will not tell Haldir, will you? He has enough to worry about, as it is."

He looked down at his feet, shifting uncomfortably, "Forgive me, my lady, but-,"

"It is a bit late to make such a request of Thranduilion, my dear," said a voice from around the curve of the stairs that shook Lothirien to the core of her being as with heavy steps, Haldir came into view. She gulped hard, for never before in her entire life, could Lothirien remember him looking so displeased.

"You may go now, my friend." Haldir said to Legolas through teeth that were set firmly together, not taking his burning eyes off of Lothirien.

Prince Legolas gulped, looking back and forth between the two Lórien Elves before he offered her a nod, his eyes gleaming with apology, then turned and departed up the stairs, leaving the two of them alone.

Lothirien watched his retreating back until he was out of sight, before she turned her eyes back upon Haldir's angry face as he dropped down the last few steps to join her within the empty armory. His chest rose and fell with bridled emotion as his eyes red with displeasure studied her, silent, for long moments beneath the flickering light of the lamps that lined the room until the tension between them was thick enough to slice through with a knife.

"Dare I wonder if that helmet and cloak might be Thalion's, as, I have discovered, he is not here." He demanded, his voice chillingly cold, and Lothirien gulped.

"I tricked him into drinking wine that I had laced with a sleeping herb." She returned, her voice soft in the stillness.

"Then you _borrowed_ them, and took his place, I suppose?" He seethed.

She nodded tentatively.

She fought the urge to cringe as she waited for the outburst. But it did not come. Instead, he stepped further into the room, closer to her, and as he came, the anger that had been flaring in his eyes melted into sadness that only deepened as he drew nearer. Lothirien's heart quickened and she hardly dared move. At last, he stopped before her, so close that the toes of his boots met hers. He lifted his hand, and with a touch that felt gentler that the soft kiss of a breeze, brushed two of his fingers across her brow. Then he lowered his eyes to contemplate the mixture of dirt and sweat accumulated on her skin from their long, strenuous march, and that had come off upon his fingertips, before he brushed it away with his thumb.

"I had hoped to save you from this." He said close to her face, and in a voice that came from low in his throat.

With a gulp, Lothirien raised her eyes to Haldir's, to see compassion as well as deep, wrenching hurt competing to show themselves upon his face.

Lothirien looked into his eyes, wanting to make him understand, but not knowing how. "Haldir, I-," she gulped and quickly lowered her eyes, "I have made you angry. And I have hurt you as well."

"I am not angry, and neither am I hurt." He murmured. "Only afraid. Terrified Lothirien, for you. I wish you had not come."

"I only wanted to be near you." She said softly.

"I know," he whispered, and then fell silent. Lothirien caught a quick breath as she felt the back of Haldir's finger slowly brush her cheek. "And I must confess, it does my heart good to see you, my little flower."

She closed her eyes, and breathed in the warm masculine scent of him, shivering at the memories his closeness stirred as his free arm circled gently about her shoulders and drew her against him.

"Do you remember the night we gave ourselves to each other?" he whispered, his breath brushing soft against her ear as she rested her head against his armored chest.

"It will be in my memory forever." she answered softly.

"With everything that I am, I wish this night could be as that one was." His words were furtive and full of longing, stinging Lothirien's eyes with tears. She felt his hands lose themselves in the cool, unbound tresses of her hair, savoring the feel of it in his fingers, before he whispered, "But, what I want, cannot be. The orcs draw near."

"Haldir, I-, I am sorry I have given you cause to worry." She said, lifting her eyes to his.

"But you are not sorry you came with me." He sighed, his warm eyes seeking hers.

"No." She admitted, her eyes falling away. "Even now, I am glad I came. I wish to fight beside you. I will not be dissuaded."

"I know that. Now." Haldir sighed, and then in a low voice begged, "But will you fulfill at least one request of mine?"

"And what is that request?"

"I do not want you on the wall." His words were strained and pleading. "I want you behind it on the ground. There will be others there, with you. You will be away from the thick of the fighting upon the parapet, but your arrows will still reach the orcs beyond. There is nothing but a small drain there, nothing the orcs could find their way through. You will be relatively safe. Will you do that for me, if nothing else?"

"If it will give you peace, so that you are not so fearful for me." She sighed with a nod. "If it will help you give more thought to your own safety, then yes."

Haldir smiled, but it was a sad, weary smile, as his hands slid beneath her chin, cradling her smooth face with such tenderness that her breath caught in her throat. "Lothirien." He whispered as his forehead rested against hers, and his eyes sought her gaze. "When this is behind us, when the battle is naught but a memory and we have returned to Lórien, I promise to show you a night more beautiful than the first that we shared. Does that please you?"

Lothirien blushed warmly at this, and Haldir smiled again, though more broadly now, for her expression was sweet and timid, yet trusting, like a young girl's. "Yes. It does." She sighed, then murmured timidly, "I will hold you to your vow."

"Good," he said gently. "And until then, let this remind us both that I have promised it." And with these words, Haldir bent his head, and pressed his lips fervently, against her own. Fire raced through Lothirien as his arms circled about her and pulled her against him, crushing her soft body against his solid chest. Her arms circled his neck, and Lothirien found herself answering his mouth with her own impassioned kisses. Her mind was in a whirl, and all she wanted was to forget everything, and give herself to him here, in the armory. But a moment later, Haldir's arms eased, and his mouth released her. A sigh escaped him before he drew back, with great reluctance, seeking her eyes.

"Forgive me," he said, a chagrined smile coming to his face. "I have distracted you."

Lothirien grinned in return, knowing she could not hide her flaming cheeks from her husband. "Do not be sorry," she returned.

"Come, then," Haldir said, picking up her helmet from the table, and offering it to her. "There are orcs approaching that wish to die upon Elven blades. Let us not disappoint them."


	18. Chapter 18

**Lothirien of Lórien - Chapter 7**

**October 24, 2003**

_Submitted By Lalaith-Elerrina_

Chapter 7

The sky above the Hornburg was starless, for thick clouds blanketed the sky, from one horizon to the other, giving Haldir not even a fleeting glimpse of the tiny points of stars that hung unmoving in the sky above them. The chill air beneath the clouds hung low and heavy, and smelled distantly of coming rain.

Along the walls, torches had been set to ward of the thick darkness, and the flames licked upward, casting shadows here and there, only to snatch them back again. Haldir's eyes were keenly fixed upon the harsh scars of flickering light that drew closer and closer toward the fortress, torches borne in the hands of the approaching orcs as the heavy tramp of many thousands of feet, once only a distant, ominous murmur, grew slowly louder, echoing back off the encroaching walls of the ravine, and vibrating now, through the very stone beneath his feet. Even in the thick mirky darkness, he could pick out the forms of individual orcs now. Their thick helms and armor were unembellished except for the smattered splash of white on each chest or helmet in the form of a hand.

Their bodies were bound in thick muscle, and their teeth were bared and sharp, eagerly anticipating the battle for which they had been bred. Black banners, branded with the white mark of Saruman's hand, floated about in the field of harsh, pointed spears above the vile, inky flood that was tramping its slow way toward them.

Drawing in a deep breath, Haldir turned and glanced toward the ground where the lines of reinforcements waited. He easily pick out Lothirien among them, her bow resting lightly in her hand as she waited, as calm faced as any of the others, and a thin smile came to his lips as he wondered how he had not noticed her before tonight. Even as distracted as he had been, he should have realized her presence long before they had arrived at the fortress. But then, perhaps it had been the will of the Valar that she come, and so his eyes had been blinded to her. He desperately hoped so. For if the Valar had willed her here, then surely, their protection would be with her as well.

As if sensing his eyes upon her, Lothirien lifted her gaze, and found his.

Haldir's soul grew warm as she found his eyes and smiled. Her smile, filled with the sweet secrets of memories only they shared, buoyed his sagging spirits, as he gazed down at her from atop the wall. It lent him added strength, needed desperately now, as the tramp of the orcs' feet grew to a noisome boom as Saruman's horde grew closer.

He drew in a breath, seeing nothing now but her, still wishing painfully that she were far from here, nestled within the safe borders of the Golden Wood. But he could not begrudge her coming here. Ever since his departure from their flet, he had inwardly berated himself that he would allow what could have been a tender parting, to explode into angry words. The greater part of the blame, he knew, rested upon his shoulders, and he knew he had deserved her stony silence instead of the soft warmth of the lingering farewell he had hoped for. Her spirit was too strong to be kept locked within the safe, gilded cage of Lórien; it had not been right for him to insist that she stay. And he was grateful for the chance her coming had given him to reaffirm his love for her, and to be assured of her love. For perhaps it was the last-,

He drew in a sharp breath and struck the thought dead before it could go further. He could not allow himself to think in such a way. Of course they would both survive. He had promised her they would. They would return to Lórien together, and they would build their life and their love as they had planned, as if this battle had never been. And he would give her a child. As beautiful a child as she wove upon the tapestry that waited patiently at home for her slender skillful hands to return, and complete it.

Beneath him, through the darkness, he watched her eyes grow wistful, almost as if she guessed his thoughts. And her perfect lips, so sweet, so moist and warm to touch, mouth the words, _I love you_ across the dark distance, and he returned the sentiment with one last fleeting smile before he tore his eyes from hers and turned forward again.

Haldir's sight returned to the ever nearing orcs, pooling ever closer, illuminated by a flash of lightning that knifed across the black, boiling underbellies of the clouds.

Another flash and a rumbling boom followed closely behind the first, and the entire ravine was swathed for an instant, in a flash of blinding white light, giving contour to the gouged rock walls of the precipices rising above them. The flash of momentary brilliance illuminated the faces of his fellow Elves, and flashed off the wizened aged faces side by side with the tender, untried, youthful faces of the Men above the gate. And a moment later, the clouds opened, and splatters of rain began to fall cold and steaming through the heavy chilled air, coming down upon them now in sudden drenching currents.

…

Lothirien raised her eyes to the sky as the rain came down in sheets, soaking rapidly through her cloak, slipping in streams beneath her armor, and soaking through her clothes, drenching her to her skin, and quickly turning the dirt beneath her feet to a thick quagmire. She sighed, reminding herself that the mud would be a hindrance to the orcs, as well.

She could see nothing of what the others upon the wall could see, but she had been listening to the distant approach of the vast horde, and could guess at the sheer numbers of them, by the way their heavy tramping made the ground beneath her feet shiver. The relentless, heavy tromping, mingled with the clank of heavy armor grew steadily nearer.

"Show them no mercy," cried the voice of Lord Aragorn from above her upon the wall, and she lifted her eyes as he strode among the ranks of warriors spaced three men deep along the parapet, "for you shall receive none!"

She gulped hard, taking his words to her heart as a hard knot tightened in her belly. She pressed her free hand against her stomach, and shook her head, willing the mild, though incessant nausea away. It was only her nervousness and fear. She could conquer it.

Beyond the wall, a low growl rolled up, deep throated and loud, and as if it were a command that only the orcs could understand, the heavy treading of their feet came to a sudden, eerie halt, followed by silence amidst the ceaseless pattering of the rain.

Lothirien shifted her feet nervously. Oh, that she could see what was going on! Beyond the wall, came a long, drawn out bellow, and at that sound as if on command, a harsh pounding began again. But it was not the tramping of feet. The noise was uniform, as the marching of their iron shod feet had been, but harsher. Like the hard, incessant hammering of a battering ram.

Their spears, she guessed suddenly. They were using the butts of their spears to pound the sopping ground.

Above her, she heard the harsh metallic scrape of a sword as Lord Aragorn drew his sword free of its sheath. Palpable fear waited in the rain drenched air as the unseen orcs beyond the wall pounded their spears into the ground in mockery of the Men and Elves who stood watching them from their defenses.

A flurry of movement alerted her elven ears through the incessant pounding, and the clatter of the rain, and she lifted her eyes to see the Men cluttered grimly at the defenses above the gate, with arrows set, and the strings of their bows drawn to their cheeks.

How long could this standoff last, she wondered to herself, before the orcs moved? The beasts beyond the wall seemed to be waiting for something. Waiting to be given a reason to attack. But the Men of Rohan were not fools, Lothirien told herself. They would not willingly give the orcs reason to-

The thought that was beginning to give her mind a sliver of comfort froze suddenly as, from the wall high above her, she heard the familiar twang and the zip of an arrow flying from the bowstring. Someone had fired! An instant later, the painful pounding of the orc's heavy staves rumbled into silence. One of them must have been struck.

"Hold!" cried Lord Aragorn's voice from above her. But he could not retract the arrow.

Lothirien clenched her eyes shut for a moment, hating now, the sounds of fury and raw hatred that rose from the throats of the mindless beasts beyond the wall, and shivered through her limbs. It rose to a swell, far greater than anything she had heard until now, almost drowning out the hideous roar that charged the orcs forward. The muddied ground beneath her began to tremble, almost violently at the pounding of unnumbered feet as the orcs beyond, rushed the walls.

"Prepare to fire!"* Lord Aragorn cried upon the wall, as down the line, another voice echoed his order.

Lothirien drew in a shaking breath as she and the Elves beside and behind her, snatched arrows from their quivers and set them to the string. Above her, she could see Haldir at the balustrade, an arrow nocked, his bowstring drawn to his cheek. His stance was taut, ready for battle, yet still and silent, as unmoving as a young tree as he stood beneath the rain. Rivulets trickled down his armor, over his broad, cloaked shoulders, and through his golden hair. She drew in a shaking breath and allowed herself a slim smile through her mounting fear as her heart gave a fierce thump of pride. He was one whose courage was undaunted. As the stars in the sky, he was to her, for though the distant sparks of the stars were veiled now by the clouds, she knew they were there, ever fixed and unmoving upon their course.

"Release the arrows!" Lord Aragorn's voice reached a crescendo as his voice echoed off the walls of the ravine. The twang of bowstrings snapping back into place flew up and down the parapet as arrows hurtled downward into the throng of orcs. Beyond the wall, the familiar sound of arrows punching bluntly through thick armor and harsh orcish screams greeted her ears as volley after volley rained down now, upon them. Lothirien set her teeth grimly, and lifted her eyes to Lord Aragorn, visible beneath the wildly flickering torchlight upon the wall, awaiting his orders.

"Give them a volley." The staunch voice of Théoden, the king, filtered down to her through the rain and the distance, and though she did not understand his words entirely, she instinctively knew the meaning even before another Man shouted, "Fire!"

And the arrows of the Rohirrim sprang outward, flying down thickly into the encroaching mass of orcs.

"The arrows!" Lord Aragorn shouted now, turning and raising his sword. Lothirien sucked in a sharp breath. This was the signal she and her comrades behind the wall had waited for, and she drew the string of her bow to her cheek, raising her sights high toward the dark void of rainwashed sky above the parapet. "Fire!" He screamed, and swung his sword in an arch, outward toward the orcs.

With a rush of release, Lothirien let her arrow fly. She watched the bright shaft, casting silver light off of it as it flew upward and arched over the heads of her comrades. Her arrow had not disappeared before she had another arrow to the string, drawn back and released, her hand once again to her quiver before the second shaft had even cleared the wall.

She drew in a deep breath, tasting the clean, sweet tang of rain drenched air, as her mind settled onto its task. She could not see her arrows once they had flown beyond the wall, but she imagined the results of her work in her mind; each arrow flying true into an orc, one that would not trouble her people, or their mortal allies again. In spite of her inability to see her quarry, Lothirien decided, this was not so different than the work she had done as a border guard on the edges of Lórien. Perhaps, she hoped, the fortifications would be enough to make the orc host easy work for them.

A tentative smile had not yet begun to creep upon her lips before it gave way to a grimace of horror as, upon the wall, Elves began to cry out in pain and fear, and all along the line, they began to fall. Beyond the wall, invisible to her still, she recognized the hard thump of crossbows as they released their thick, heavy quarrels upward into the defenders of the wall.

Directly above her, one of the dark haired Elves of Rivendell stumbled backward, a thick black arrow piercing through his armor, and fell with a wane cry downward, where he landed with a hard thump upon the rain soaked ground at the base of the wall.

A gasp ripped from her throat as Lothirien dashed to his side. She winced bitterly at the solid black shaft that had punched cleanly through his armor, and tried to ignore it as she knelt over him, and placed a hand against his throat. Her eyes she focused away from his wound, and on his face. His was a strong, fearless face, his open eyes a bright green, flecked with sparks of gold and brown. But there was no response in them as they peered unseeing, up at her. And there was no soft pulse beneath her fingers.

Thick bitter tears stung her eyes, as she denied what she saw. He could not have died. Such a fair, noble one who should have lived many more long merry years within the sheltered vale of Imladris. Doubtless such a one as he would have a lover waiting for him, watching and hoping, with ceaseless prayers to the Valar for his safe return. But her prayers, Lothirien realized as grief became a hard knot in her chest, would not find the answer she hoped for.

"Ladders!" Lord Aragorn's voice cried out from above, bringing her at last out of her lethargy. And her eyes shot upward. She heard the repeated thump of heavy wooden ladders striking the balustrade up and down the wall, and a moment later, his voice rang out again, "Swords! Swords!" and the rasp of metal sliding from the sheath rattled up and down the wall. Suddenly, her strength was back. Faster than thought, she found herself once again on her feet, her fist tightening around her bow as she sprinted along the wall toward the ground beneath where Haldir stood. She ground to a stop at the edge of a murky pool of water that had formed around the base of the wall as it trickled over the mass of thick, rotting flotsam that had collected at the iron grated culvert before it drained outward into the valley. At the edge of the water, she glanced upward, snatching an arrow from her quiver. She had a perfect angle from here. Her eyes found Haldir, sword in hand, as his blade plunged into a snarling orc that had just scrambled to the top of the wall. It squealed, not unlike an enraged boar as it dropped out of sight, but not before another orc, a massive, muscular creature, nothing but muscle and sinew beneath its mottled, greasy skin pounced over the ledge of another ladder, just behind him. With a scowl, Lothirien raised her bow, drew the string to her cheek, and let her arrow fly, burying itself to the white feather fletchings in the creature's side before it could cut her beloved down from behind.

Haldir turned just as the orc uttered a muffled squeal, and crumpled, tumbling over the edge of the parapet. Glancing down, his eyes caught the gaze of his benefactor, and he offered her a quick grin before he turned back to his own grizzly business.

…

Lothirien's bow was already drawn to her cheek again, her arrows following each other in rapid succession, finding orcs as they scrambled to the tops of their ladders and pounced over, thick and dark, like so many black, swarming beetles. She had promised Haldir that she would stay on the ground, but she would not take her promise as an excuse to cower away like a fearful child.

_* The Sindarin verb _had_- translates literally to hurl, or throw forcefully. Of course, in English we would translate that to "_fire_", as "_Prepare to hurl_!" doesn't quite come across the same way._


	19. Chapter 19

**Lalaith Elerrina-Daughter of Valinor - Chapter 15**

**October 25, 2003**

_Submitted By Lalaith-Elerrina_

Chapter 15

"Legolas! Two already!"

Gimli's jovial cry rose above the clashing, discordant sounds of battle, and Legolas looked up from the orc he had just flung down from the wall at the Dwarf who stood several lengths away from him.

Gimli's glove with all but two fingers pulled into a fist, waved proudly at the Elf. Legolas grinned at Gimli's bright eyes that shone proudly out from behind his bush of a beard, and cheerfully cried, "I'm on seventeen!"

Gimli's glowing face fell into a look of perturbed astonishment. "Wha-?" He roared. "I'll have no pointy-ear outscoring me!" With that, the Dwarf turned back to the orcs as they streamed across the balustrade, and with his axe, tore into them with renewed vengeance.

Legolas turned back as well, snatching an arrow from his quiver as another orc reached the crest of the wall and in one smooth motion, drew his string to his cheek, and released. The orc, with a harsh squeal, fell heavily from the ladder as another arrow was set to the string, drawn back, and sent into another goblin as it scrabbled to the top of its ladder, striking yet another of the ceaseless stream of orcs down from the wall.

"Nineteen!" He cried out to Gimli's back.

The Dwarf made no other response to this but to lay into the streaming horde with a fearsome roar, and even greater vengeance than before. Gimli, Legolas thought to himself with a rueful grin as he set himself back to the task of killing uruks, was swiftly catching up with him.

Legolas took advantaged of a momentary lull to glance down and away at the ground many paces from where he stood, to see the Lady Lothirien, Haldir's wife. Her arrows, and those of the Elves near to her, were flying as thickly as hornets into orcs as they scrambled to the top of the wall, leaving Haldir but few to contend with. Her arrows were quickly depleting, though, as were those of her other companions scattered about her upon the ground. Seeing her there, clad in armor like a man, and prepared to die to save the Rohirrim, as all the others were, Legolas sent a quick prayer of gratitude to the Valar that Lalaith was not here, as well. He would be worried to distraction for her, if she was.

The greater part of the harsh battle still lay before them all, and though he faced it with a tenacious grin, mentally calculating the tally of his kills in his head, he knew the long night was far from over as orcs continued to mount the ladders, which only here and there, managed to be kicked from the walls, landing with a shattering crash onto the uncounted uruks massing below.

…

Lalaith sat upon the roots of the old gnarled tree where she and the Hobbits had waited for much of the day, and long into the hours of the night. Pippin sat nearby upon her folded blanket, fumbling a small stone back and forth between his hands as Merry, who had been growing more agitated as the hours passed, paced back and forth near the circle of Ents as they groaned and sighed in the long speech of the Ents, swaying back and forth like trees moaning in the wind.

Pippin's eyes had taken on a thoughtful look as he gaze long upon the little stone in his fingers, and Lalaith could see that his thoughts were taking him far away.

"Pip," she murmured in a hushed tone, and at her voice, he lifted his head, and glanced at her inquiringly, "do you miss the Shire much?"

"I do, a little," he admitted with a shrug.

"I've never been there." She sighed, absently plucking a small green leaf from where it had fallen upon the ground, and twirling it around between two fingers. "Bilbo's spoken of it. But I've never seen it. It sounds like a lovely place."

"It is." Pippin sighed wistfully. "I do miss it. And the folk there, too."

"And Diamond?" Lalaith asked, her mouth twisting into a slender smirk.

"Diamond of Long Cleeve?" Pippin asked, his cheeks coloring a little. "She's just a Hobbit-lass I know. I don't see her often. She's not-," Pippin gulped, "she's not a sweetheart or anything." Pippin glanced back at the stone in his hand, and beneath his breath, in a voice she would not have heard without her elven hearing, he added, "_Not yet, anyway_."

He sighed, and as he tossed the stone away, he muttered aloud, "I would like to see the Shire again. And-, and Diamond too."

Lalaith drew in a deep breath of the sweet night air of the forest, and leaned her head against the wizened tree trunk at her back, and tipped her head back so that she could see the black velvet swathe of the sky above her, bejeweled with sparkling stars. _And I would like to see Legolas again_, her mind whispered.

Beside her, Pippin stirred slightly as he rose to her feet, and tromped over the grass to join Merry where he was still pacing about.

How would she find her way to Legolas? The way he had avoided her questions so stubbornly in the dream they had shared, had made her suspect that he might be in some peril that he did not want to trouble her with. Were she to have been certain that he was in danger, there was no doubt but that she would rush off to find him, with or without the help of Treebeard and the Hobbits. But to have her questions brushed away as lightly as he had, gave her no recourse, but to be sick at heart, and more eager than ever to have the Ents come to the conclusion that they must help fight against the darkness. That could be the only conclusion that they could come to. The risk to all the inhabitants of Arda was too great.

"Merry. Lalaith!" Pippin's voice piped through the darkness, reaching her where she sat, and her head that had been lifted to the sky in thoughtful contemplation, lowered. Treebeard was coming.

Leaping to her feet, she joined the Hobbits and lifted her eyes to Treebeard's gaze as he stepped near, and creaked to a stop above them.

"We," he boomed in the slow breathy way he talked, "have just agreed." He nodded his head, closing his large golden eyes.

Lalaith bit her lip as her eyes lowered to Merry's, and the two traded a hopeful nod. Pippin shifted his feet, and the three waited expectantly.

But Treebeard didn't move.

Lalaith gulped, pursed her lips and folded her arms as she shifted her stance.

"Yes?" Merry finally asked, bringing Treebeard's head back up, as his eyes opened once again to gaze down in studious concern upon his three smaller friends.

"I have told your names to the Entmoot," Treebeard breathed, his voice low and deep, "and we have agreed," Lalaith refrained from rolling her eyes at the slow words that seemed to run like stiff honey from his mouth, "that Master Meriadoc, and Master Peregrin are not," he drew a long pause here, and a noisome sigh escaped Lalaith, "orcs," Treebeard nodded at Lalaith, "for the daughter of Valar would most assuredly not choose orcs as her traveling companions."

He released a rumble of contentment as a wide smile split the slit of his mouth beneath the knot that appeared to be his nose, and the other Ents behind him nodded enthusiastically as their golden eyes widened, and their knotted, wooden faces curled up in contented smiles.

"Well, that's good news." Pippin nodded with an attempt at cheerfulness. Merry however, was scowling with concern, and seemed ready to say something.

"But what about Saruman's army?" Lalaith cut in, before the Hobbit could speak, her patience frayed. "What do you mean to do about _him_ and his orcs?"

"Now, now." Treebeard rumbled soothingly, one of his branching hands raised in admonishment. "Don't be hasty, my little Valië."

"_Hasty_?" Merry burst in here, and stepped forward past Lalaith, his face tight with impatience and anxiety. "Our friends are out there!" He insisted, pointing away and through the forest. "They need our help. They _cannot_ fight this war on their own!"

"War? Yes." Rumbled Treebeard unperturbed, his voice as slow as ever. "It affects us all."

With slow creaking of bark and branches, Treebeard bent low toward them with the air of a wise parent, patiently addressing ignorant children. "But you must understand, my young ones," he breathed, "it takes a long time to say anything in Old Entish," Lalaith glanced down at the Hobbits, while Merry's eyes lifted to meet hers. Merry shook his head and harrumphed softly. His face mirrored her own feelings of frustration as Treebeard continued to drone, "and we never say anything unless it is worth taking a long time to say."


	20. Chapter 20

**Lothirien of Lórien - Chapter 8**

**October 27, 2003**

_Submitted By Lalaith-Elerrina_

Chapter 8

"_Seventeen! Eighteen!_"

Lothirien's lips curled into a dour smile as her eyes trailed along the parapet, and found the sturdy fearless Dwarf, yelling loudly as he tallied the number of orcs he slew. He was perched fearlessly, right upon the balustrade, smashing orcs back down as they came to the top of the wall.

_What fools_. She thought to herself with grim satisfaction as she sighted on yet another snarling uruk that had pounced over the ledge of its ladder to land flat footed upon the parapet. She released the string, and watched the silver arrow fly true to its mark, thumping hard into the creature's throat. The orc squealed and fell, twitching as it tumbled over the ledge and landed with a hard splash into the mirky water pooled about the grated arch of the drain. _They may cut a few of us down. But they will never make it past us. They will never breach the wall._

The dead orc sank quickly into the dim water, bubbles popping in its wake. But as it went, Lothirien's eyes caught a new movement beyond the trickle of water, through the rusted iron grate. Even with her elven sight, it was difficult to see through the mirky darkness of the drainage tunnel, but it seemed to her eyes that she could see the stark outlines of two more huge uruks scrambling forward toward the grating. They were heaving something between them, as they struggled along through the trickling stream. Something massive and heavy, round and cumbersome between them. Her eyes shot open in alarm. It was a great spiked sphere.

"Causeway!" Lord Aragorn's voice screamed down from above, once in the Common tongue, and then again in her own language. "_Causeway_! Release the arrows! Kill them!" He shrieked, and Elves turned from the orcs climbing below them to fire their arrows in a whistling hail off at a target unseen by her, where she stood beneath the wall.

Orcs were making their way up the high exposed bridge toward the gate, attempting to ram it, she realized. And as a shiver of horror rattled through her, she decided that that was what these creatures must be doing, here. Perhaps this great iron orb was meant to ram through the weak iron grating.

This drain was the wall's one weakness. If they could but bash through the iron grating, the Elves would have to deal with a steady stream of orcs upon the ground, as well as on the wall.

Dashing into the pool, she clambered through the slog, struggling with her footing, and fighting the nausea that once again gripped her stomach as her boots stumbled over something submerged, It felt like a drowned tree limb, but it was too soft beneath her boots. Lothirien fought the urge to retch, realizing that it could only have been the dead orc, and she had caught her foot on one of its limbs. She stumbled over the submerged body and struggled on until the cold chilling water reached her mid-thigh. Once again she drew her arrow back again to her cheek, took aim, and let it fly through the iron grate. It struck one of the shadowed figures, and the creature uttered a harsh squeal before it collapsed. The other orc gave a bark of fear, dropped the heavy iron sphere, and turned around, sprinting out of the tunnel. But no sooner had it gone, than two more orcs came scampering from behind, carrying a similar looking ball of iron.

Tightening her jaw, Lothirien drew and released another arrow, striking another of these two orcs. The second spiked iron sphere dropped beside the first, striking it with a hollow clang. The surviving orc, squealing and scrambling to get back out of the tunnel, had not made it far before another stinging arrow found it, cutting through its muscled back, and it fell writhing and squealing before it lay dead.

Lothirien allowed herself a broad grin now. It appeared that she had foiled their plans. No more orcs were coming, attempting to force their way through the grate. She had succeeded.

But then, a slow weight seemed to drag her satisfied grin from her face, for now, through the darkened tunnel, she could see yet another orc approaching. It was a great goblin man, bound in thick muscle, clad in little more than a dark loincloth, and a hard metal helmet. Within one thick fist, it bore a torch, unlike the flickering yellow and orange flames in the torches borne by many other orcs. This torch hissed and spit, white hot, scattering sparks upward about it. The other uruks had parted to one side and the other as the one orc, alone, ran with hard, determined stride, splashing hard up the small draining stream toward the drainage tunnel.

A sick feeling seized her. What was Saruman's plan here? What were these orcs attempting to do? Her mind scrambled for a question, but she could not find the answer. All she understood now, was that if she could not take the orc down, something unspeakable would happen.

"Bring him down, Legolas!"

Lothirien lifted a scattered, frightened look upward to the parapet. She had recognized Lord Aragorn's frantic shout. He had noticed the orc coming, too. Crushing her teeth together, Lothirien's gaze shot back to the creature she could see through the grating, approaching the arched tunnel. She drew back her string to her cheek releasing it with a sharp twang as her arrow through the grate, hitting the uruk in the stomach just as another arrow flew down from above and drove down into its body through its shoulder.

The orc hardly seemed to realize that it had been pierced by two arrows, and still it kept coming, its torch clutched as tightly as ever within its fist.

"Kill him!" Aragorn's voice screamed through the haze of her panic as other of her arrows flew from the string through the grate, out of the shadows of the tunnel and into the creature's chest, just beneath its ribs. Still it came. "_Kill him_!"

Another arrow loosed from the parapet, drove down through the top of the orcs chest as Lothirien once again drew her string back, sighted down the shaft of her arrow, and released the string, the arrow flying true into the very center of its chest.

The arrow riddled orc writhed, and almost stumbled, but still it stayed upon its feet long enough to leap forward into the dim shadows of the tunnel. For the splinter of a moment, the sparking light of the white hot torch illuminated the stone walls and low arched ceiling of the tunnel as well as the great iron spiked globes that waited before the woven iron grating. And in that instant, Lothirien understood. And her fate, cruel and stark, stared hard into her face.

…

As Haldir watched the orc rumbling toward the yawning archway of the shadowed tunnel, a heavy feeling of dread clutched his chest. But as he spun to avoid the thrashing black blade of an orc, he had no way to help the Mirkwood Prince bring the creature down. He stumbled to one knee as the orc's heavy black blade swung around its head and arched downward toward his face. But the tempered steel of his elven blade, lifted in time, struck the hard orc blade. And as metal stuck metal, the opposing blades screamed, grating one upon the other, as fierce sparks flew between them. He saw the orc's hard yellow eyes beneath the shadows of its helmet, and saw the stark, boiling hatred within them.

With a fierce shove, he threw the creature off of him, and as it stumbled back, he thrust his sword forward, and cut the blade hard into the orc's side. Black blood spurted forth as the creature fell dead, splashing into his face and his eyes, blinding him momentarily. Flashing his hand across his blood splattered face, he looked up again over the balustrade. The orc had almost reached the dark void of the arched tunnel, though it was riddled with arrows, Legolas' arrows as well two buried in its stomach. Both bore the white feathered fletchings of Lórien arrows. His eyes flashed down to the dirty water pooled inside the wall at the grating, to see another Elf-, his heart nearly stopped.

His own Lothirien, her dark cloak flowing behind her through the dark water, stood thigh deep in the water, only paces away from the rusted iron grating, her bow in hand, as she snatched an arrow from her quiver and nocked it smoothly to the string. He watched her draw her string to her cheek and release it in the fluid grace of motion that was hers, and the arrow sped beneath the wall, striking through the snarling beast in the center of its chest just as it dove through the opening.

"Lothirien!" He cried. "Get out-," but his voice was drowned in the sudden deafening cacophony and mind numbing confusion that followed.


	21. Chapter 21

**Lalaith Elerrina-Daughter of Valinor - Chapter 16**

**October 29, 2003**

_Submitted By Lalaith-Elerrina_

Chapter 16

The night was growing older, yet but for the stars wheeling overhead, time hardly seemed to be passing. There was little change in the booming swaying speech of the Ents, and the confidence that Lalaith had felt earlier was beginning to wane. Would Treebeard not help them?

Lalaith sat upon the jutting tree root at the edge of the clearing as Pippin and Merry paced back and forth in front of her. Within her hands, she held the short shining knife that Galadriel had given her, and that had saved her life down at the eaves of Fangorn. The short slender blade shone in the light of the stars, almost glowing as it rested lightly in her hands.

She smiled down upon the shining blade as she went over again in her mind the day it had been given to her. Though they were leaving Lórien, it was a happy day for her. Legolas had begun to call her again by her own name that day. He had begun to touch her again. Lalaith bit her lip softly and closed her eyes as she remembered the impress of each lean finger, warm against her skin through her jerkin and tunic, and the sturdy warmth of his shoulders beneath her own hands as he had lifted her down into the boat, barely rocking beneath their light feet.

The only other time he had touched her since then, was when they had danced, alone in the flower filled glade along the edge of the Anduin. But it had only been a brief touch, for-,

Lalaith's slender smile faded. _Boromir._ She breathed a sigh, closing her eyes as she touched a finger lightly to her lips, remembering her last moments with him. The memory of her shared dream with Legolas was still warm in her thoughts, as was the heat of his embrace, and of their kiss. But her last kiss in the waking world had been from Boromir. Her friend, whom she cared for as no more than a brother, in much the same way she loved Aragorn. But Boromir's love for her had been far deeper than the love of a brother for a sister. In spite of the curse Sauron had placed on her. In spite of his knowing he could never have her, for her heart belonged to Legolas. And now, her friend, the brave warrior of Gondor, was gone. She knew it as well as if she had knelt at his side and watched him die.

She drew in a ragged breath. Dear Boromir. He had faltered, yes, but he had not fallen. He had redeemed himself in the end. And now he had his reward, wherever he was, beyond the stars, or in the Halls of Mandos, as Manwë her father had decreed, when he countered Sauron's curse.

"May you have peace, my friend. Wherever you are," she murmured softly, lifting her eyes away from her knife, and to the stars.

As the light of the distant pinpricks found her eyes, her thoughts returned again to Legolas, and her sobered spirits slowly lifted. She touched a hand to her throat, and slowly drew the medallion forth, running her thumb slowly over the jewel encrusted disk. What would he think, were he to know of Boromir's kiss? She had not encouraged Boromir, nor returned his kiss, but she had not resisted it, either. Would Legolas forgive her?

At the thought, she smiled self-reproachingly. Need she even ask such a question? Legolas had borne Boromir no ill will, even when he had guessed at the Man's feelings for his betrothed. And it was not his nature to be jealous of so small a thing, especially after her foolish rejection the first time he had asked her for her promise of marriage. Boromir's one small kiss had been nothing compared to what she had so childishly done then, and Legolas had easily forgiven her for that.

She closed her fist around the medallion, and stared deeper at the stars, willing her thoughts away, wanting to see him, wherever he was, whether safe or in danger. She wanted to know. But her mind's sight was blocked now, as if by a great fog, and she could not see him.

_Where is he?_ She cried out in her mind. _I must see him! I must know!_

_My dear child._ Elbereth's voice echoed in her mind. _Now is not the time._

_Why? What has happened that I cannot be told of it?_ She demanded.

_Thou art needed here, my child._

_I cannot be needed here more than Legolas needs me._ Lalaith insisted. _The Ents do nothing! I have done little but wait, and pace about! What is there for me to do?_

_Peace, my child_. Elbereth's voice soothed. _It is true that Lady Yavanna's subjects are slow to act in anger or in calm. But they can be roused. Thou hast been placed among them, to help them understand that they are needed, desperately, in this struggle against evil. When they understand this, they will act. And little if nothing, will stop them, then._

…

Legolas lifted his face from the hard, unforgiving stone of the parapet where he had been thrown when the horrific blast that was still ringing in his hears had blown the once solid stone beneath his feet up around him. _What on Arda had just happened_?

Coughing out a mouthful of dust, he pushed himself shakily to an elbow to see Gimli crumpled nearby, still alive, thankfully, for he was moaning softly.

Shaking his head to clear it of the dizzy confusion that still lingered, Legolas pushed himself up, finding his feet beneath him again.

Other Elves, up and down the parapet were slowly, unsteadily rising after being shaken off of their feet. But Haldir several paces away, still knelt upon the stone, his hands resting helplessly, heavily in his lap as his eyes, set within a blank face of disbelief, scanned the inner ground below. He seemed, for the moment at least, entirely void of any desire to protect himself, or even to do anything at all. If orcs were to come over the walls now, he would be able to cut them all down in a matter of moments. But the power of the blast appeared to have been something even they had not reckoned.

Glancing away from the stunned Elf, Legolas surveyed the blasted cavity where the wall had once been. Water poured in a wild rush through the suddenly open drain, blocking, but only for a moment, the forward surge of orcs rushing through the gap, not many paces from the fallen form of Aragorn where he lay upon the rough pebbly ground where he had been thrown down from the parapet by the unearthly blast that had blown the wall apart.

He was alive, though, as he lifted himself up on his elbows, and shook his head to clear it of the dizzy confusion that was still reeling through his mind. Another Elf lay nearby in the wet pebbly sand, unmoving, a bow still clutched in her fist.

_Oh, Great Eru, please no_. Though the fair, brave lady below him was not his own Lalaith, Legolas still felt a stab of numbing grief, far worse than the reeling blackness and confusion the explosion had brought on. Her cloak had been torn halfway from her narrow armored shoulders, and her helmet had been ripped completely off. Her long hair lay about her, damp and dirty, and the side of her face that was not pressed against the damp ground, had a long narrow burn mark, slashed black and fierce from her temple down to her jaw. The offending shred of iron lay near her, still glowing hot and red from the wild cacophony that had sent it spinning away from the grating, striking her in the face as it flew. She could not have been far from the explosion then. The chance that she was still alive, were slim, if there was a chance at all.

Sickened, Legolas glanced back at Haldir who had not moved from where he knelt, his eyes unblinking, fixed upon the lifeless form of his lady where she lay upon the damp ground as the orcs came slogging nearer through the water logged gap. But that was not the only way they were coming.

"Haldir!" Legolas shouted in warning as orcs, recovered from their own shock, began scampering up their ladders once again, to pounce flat footed to the parapet, their teeth bared, and weapons raised. One orc, scrambling over the balustrade behind Haldir saw the kneeling Elf, helpless, unwilling to fight, and released a deep throated guffaw, as it raised its blade for the easy kill. But at Legolas' shout, Haldir's eyes blinked, as if recovering from a trance, and his hand snatched his blade that had fallen near his hand.

As the orc's long, notch edged sword descended, Haldir turned, lifting his blade and spinning to his feet in the same motion.

The face of the March Warden of Lórien was alive again, burning with a mindless fury that had not been his before. He blocked the orc's blow, and in the same motion, swung his own blade back around, decapitating the beast with one smooth stroke before he moved onto another thick uruk that had lumbered over the balustrade. Haldir lashed furiously into the orc and more that came behind it, and a cry of fury and loathing tore from his lungs.

In that one ragged cry, Legolas could hear the agony of Haldir's grief, and sensed his desperate desire to slay every last orc here. Yet, there had been something in Haldir's eyes that made the grief in Legolas well even stronger. The Lórien Elf no longer fought to preserve his own life, but only to destroy the orcs. For in his eyes, Legolas could no longer see a desire to live.

…

Beneath the parapet Aragorn lifted his head from the damp ground and glanced back at the approaching orcs, his eyes flashing over the still from of the Elf that lay not far from him.

He gaped in disbelief as he recognized her, still fair in spite of the black burn mark that sliced across the side of her face. If he was not mistaken, this was the friend of Lalaith, Lothirien, betrothed to Haldir, married to him now, he guessed, for the planned day of their marriage had not been far away when the Fellowship had departed Lórien.

"My lady?" he gasped, reaching out and clapping his hand upon her arm, and jostling her anxiously. What was a woman doing here? But she did not move. "My lady!" He cried.

But she did not hear. She did not move. Was she even breathing? Scrambling over to her side, he gathered her limp form up in his arms, surprisingly light in spite of her ragged, water logged cloak, that hung half torn from one shoulder the armor she wore, and struggled to his feet as the orcs came slogging through the muddy water pooled within the ragged gap in the wall.

"Aragorn!" came a deep cry from the ragged edge where the parapet had been ripped apart, and he glanced up to see Gimli making a running leap off of the edge and out over the forest of orc spears thrust upward into the sky. By some miracle, the Dwarf was not impaled, and instead came slamming down on several orc heads, his axe at the ready as he clambered up in the waist deep muck, thrashing into the bodies of orcs with his axe blade.

"Gimli!" Aragorn cried. But the Dwarf hardly seemed to hear, slashing back and forth with his axe, taking down one orc, and then another.

"Take her." Aragorn cried, running and half slipping toward one of the Elves waiting behind him, their swords ready. It was Orophin he addressed, the younger brother of Haldir, and thus Lothirien's brother by marriage. "Get her away from here!" He ordered as he thrust the drooping form of the woman into the Elf's arms.

"_Lothirien_?" the startled Elf blurted back, as shocked to see her here as Aragorn had been. He shoved his sword back into its scabbard and gathering her limp, sagging form into his own arms. "Of course!" He cried, and turned to dart away with her as Aragorn turned back to face the intruding orcs.

Gimli was still swinging his axe tenaciously about, the blade clanging hard off of the orcs' armor, striking down one and then other as they came at him until his feet slipped beneath him, and with a wild cry, he fell backward into the water, sinking quickly beneath the surface.

"Fire the arrows!" Aragorn screamed now, and at his command, hundreds of bows twanged, hundreds of arrows darted from the string and shot past him, over his head and to the right and left of him, stirring the air about him as they did, to fly with scattered thumps into the encroaching horde.

Tightening his sword within his bloodied fist, his mind once again pictured the motionless face of the lady, Lothirien, where she had fallen, unconscious, perhaps dead, he did not know. Her fate would be shared by the children and the women of the Rohirrim if they failed to defeat the orcs tonight.

With that thought, he screamed, "_Charge_!" And as one body, he and the Elves behind him, their swords at the ready, flew swiftly down the gentle slope of sand and pebbles toward the angry fuming mass of orcs that awaited them.

…

Shouts and the high sharp sound of weapons clashing below him brought Legolas' head around. There were more orcs scrambling up the ladders, but he could see Aragorn and the narrow line of shining Elven armor clashing against the darker wall of orcs. He was needed more upon the ground. But how to get down swiftly? Further down the wall, another orc, its arm wielding a shield, rose to block yet another of Haldir's enraged blows, but the creature misjudged, and instead of the blade crashing into the shield, Haldir's elven sword sliced with terrifying ease cleanly through the creature's arm.

The severed limb flopped heavily upon the ledge, then tumbled away into the darkness but the shield that had once been attached to it, came skittering away along the edge of the parapet to where Legolas clamped his foot upon it, stopping its forward movement before it could continue on and clatter away down the slick stone steps. He popped his boot down upon the bowed edge of the shield flipping it up into the air, and caught it easily by one of the two sharpened prongs upon the narrow end. And as his eyes darted from the shield in his hand toward the shining, rain drenched stone it had almost tumbled down, a somber look gripped his face.

With a running start, Legolas flung the shield forward where it landed upon the parapet with a clap, and continued to slide forward easily over the rain wet stone. For two steps Legolas dashed along behind it until he leaped, his feet landing lightly with the upward curving inner part of the shield just as the orcish weapon hit the top most steps. And then with the Elf riding sideward upon it, the shield began its clattering descent toward the surging cluster of orcs. Legolas, his knees bent to absorb the impact of each unforgiving, hard edged stone that slipped swiftly beneath the metal shield, drew arrow after arrow, firing each shaft true into the throats or chests of orcs as they came surging through the deep slog behind those who raged against Aragorn and the Elves beside him.

The bottom of the steps drew swiftly closer, and in the last moment before he would have tumbled into the very midst of the invading orcs, Legolas jumped clear of the orc shield with a final kick, ending his swift, yet wild ride, and it flew away, driving its forked end through the armor and into the chest of another orc.

Legolas landed lightly upon his toes and turned, snatching yet another arrow from his quiver, and shoving it hard through the exposed neck of an orc that came lunging at him with a snarl. Keeping his fist wrapped tightly around the now bloody arrow, he shoved his foot into the stiff chest of the orc, and kicked its now dead body backward as he withdrew his arrow with a fierce tug.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Gimli come lunging up out of the water with a deep angry snarl as Aragorn snatched him up, and pulled him back away from the line of orcs. Legolas drew the blackened arrow to his cheek, and released the string, sending the arrow piercing clean through an orc that pounced at him with a wild screech, its cry cut off as his arrow rammed through its armor, and knocked it backward, dead before it struck the water it had been slogging through. Legolas backpedaled until he reached the line where the Elves and orcs clashed the most fiercely, and there he stayed, his jaw set firm as he snatched arrow after arrow, cutting down orcs as they came at him, slowly emptying his quiver.


	22. Chapter 22

**Lalaith Elerrina-Daugher of Valinor - Chapter 17**

**October 30, 2003**  
_Submitted By Lalaith-Elerrina_

Chapter 17

Lalaith sat cross legged upon the ground, her head down, her eyes upon her empty hands that sat open within her lap. But at the first, brief movement from the line of murmuring Ents, she lifted her head.

The low, steady murmur of the Ents had ended at last, and Treebeard was turning.

"Merry! Pippin!" She cried to the pacing Hobbits as she leaped lightly to her feet, and rushed toward the circle of Ents. Merry and Pippin followed behind her as she darted between Treebeard and another Ent beside him to stand beside the great rock in the middle of the circle, and raised her eyes to their faces.

"What is your plan?" She blurted as the Hobbits fumbled to a stop beside her.

Treebeard's golden eyes studied her for a long moment, gazing out of his ancient, wizened face kindly and compassionate, before he spoke gently, "The Ents cannot hold back this storm."

Her heart suddenly felt like a rock in her chest. Beside her, she felt Merry's feet stutter, and she looked down, trading a glance with the Hobbit, whose usually cheerful face was now deadly serious.

"We must weather such things as we have always done." Treebeard added slowly.

"How can that be your decision?" Merry seethed beside her, his voice and his face furious.

"This is not our war." Treebeard breathed gently.

"It _is_ your war, Treebeard!" Lalaith cried, gulping hard, determined not to let herself cry. Her mother had said the Ents would help, once they realize they were needed. She had to make them understand. "It is the war of every good creature that is a part of this world!"

Treebeard rumbled deeply to himself at this as Merry, tears beginning to stand in his small eyes added, "And _you are_ a part of this world!" He glanced desperately between the gathered Ents, "Aren't you?"

The Ents groaned and creaked, glancing at one another as Merry continued, "You must help! Please!"

Lalaith glanced downward at the moss that edged the base of the stone, and softly added, "You must do something. Anything." With a sigh, she lifted her eyes to Treebeard's. "You know who I am." She gulped desperately. "Your own mistress, Yavanna, is my kin. Does my word matter not at all, to you?"

Treebeard drew in a long sigh at this, and answered in his slow, deep, resonant voice, "You are young and brave, my little Valië, but your part in this tale is over. As is yours, Master Merry. Go back to your homes."

"I am not ready to do that!" Lalaith cried, despairing. "Do you not understand, Treebeard? My friends are in this war! He to whom I have given the whole of my heart, is in great peril. I know it. I will not return to Imladris until after this war is won. If I have not died to keep it free."

"Died?" Treebeard slowly shook his head. "No, no my young Valië. I promised Gandalf I would keep you safe."

"But Treebeard-,"

Treebeard put a hand up to stop her protest, and turned slowly away, signaling the end of their argument.

With a frustrated groan, Lalaith turned away, and marched with heavy step toward the Hobbits, who had returned to the edge of the clearing. Merry was reluctantly slinging his coat back on, and Pippin hovered nearby, his eyes trailing heavily to Merry, then to Lalaith and back again.

Lalaith glanced at Merry, and a look of bitter frustration passed between them as Pippin stepped closer.

"Maybe Treebeard's right." Pippin offered softly. "We don't belong here. None of us do. It's too big for us." He glanced up at Lalaith's darkened countenance. "Let's face it Lalaith. Merry and I came for the adventure. And you came because of Legolas. What can any of the three of us really do in the end?"

He smiled wanly and said, "We've got the Shire. And you've got Rivendell. Maybe we should all go home."

Merry shook his head at this, wordless, and glanced away from Pippin.

Lalaith studied the youngest, usually the most cheerful Hobbit with lowered eyes. Perhaps he felt helpless, that there was nothing more he could do. Perhaps he was thinking of his friend, Diamond, the Hobbit-lass he had spoken of before. And maybe he could not see all that he was capable of doing. But he could do so much more than he allowed himself to see right now.

"Pippin," Lalaith muttered gently, falling to her knees to better face her friend, "perhaps those are the reasons why we came. But there are greater reasons now, why we should _stay_." She drew in a breath, and looked away. "Sauron tried to kill me when I was a baby. If I cannot face and fight his darkness now, then it will only show that I have allowed him to defeat me. I cannot do that."

Pippin sighed, and was about to speak, but Lalaith continued, "And Sauron's minions killed Boromir, Pippin! Your friend! And mine, and Merry's! How many others will be slain before the end of this war? Will Frodo die? Sam perhaps? What of Aragorn and Gimli?"

"Or Legolas?" Merry murmured, glancing at her with reluctant eyes.

Lalaith clenched her jaw and nodded, determined not to cry. "And think of the fires of Isengard." She managed to gasp out through her tightened throat. "How do you think Saruman, keeps them burning? Doubtless, with the trees of Treebeard's own forest! They are as alive as you and me, Pip. How would it be for you, if you were to know that Saruman feeds his fires with the slain bodies of Hobbits?"

"The fires of Isengard will spread." Merry added to her words in a low, cheerless voice. "And the woods of Tuckborough and Buckland will burn. The rivers and waterfalls in Rivendell will dry up. And-," Merry slowly turned to face Pippin, his face drawn in sober pain, "and all that was once green and good in this world will be gone."

Lalaith bit her lip softly as Merry clasped Pippin's arm, and studied the younger Hobbit's somber eyes. "There won't be a Shire, _or_ a Rivendell for any of us to return to, Pippin."


	23. Chapter 23

**Lothirien of Lórien - Chapter 9**

**October 31, 2003**

_Submitted By Lalaith-Elerrina_

Chapter 9

The sound of dripping water entered Lothirien's darkened senses, and she stirred where she had been lain. A layer of cloaks had been spread beneath her, but it did not quite ward off the chill of the cold stone beneath.

The blurred blackness of her dreamless sleep faded as light at last found its way into her eyes, and the image of a marbled stalactite, wet and shimmering and ceaselessly dripping, came slowly into focus, hanging down from the sparkling ceiling of a vast subterranean chamber.

She could hear the voices of women and children nearby, though she had been given a slight measure of privacy by a low ridge of stone. Her bed had been set up in a curved, half cave of stone, and she was alone here, but for one other person, whose presence hovered near. Somewhere, further away in the cave, Lothirien could hear the high wail of a tiny baby. The sound clenched Lothirien's heart tightly, in a way that such a helpless, pleading cry had not done before, though she could not place why. It was because of the orcs, she guessed. If she did not go back, if she did not do her part to help, all these women, all these helpless tiny children would die. She had to get up.

"M'lady?"

The voice was feminine, and spoken in the common tongue, and she turned head to the side to see a mortal woman kneeling beside her. She was young with golden hair hanging long and unbound down her back, and a proud noble look in her eyes, much like that which the king of these brave Rohirrim bore. Perhaps she was a daughter, Lothirien guessed, or at least a near kinswoman. A white cloth and a bowl of what appeared to be water rested in her small, slender hands. The cloth that she had been sponging lightly against the side of Lothirien's face had a spot of blood on it, and she wondered absently how it had gotten there. What had happened? The side of her face felt strangely numb, though a low ache was beginning to pulse deep in the skin, and she wondered if that had anything to do with the blood upon the cloth.

A smile came to the pale, lightly freckled face of the maiden as Lothirien lifted her gaze, and their eyes met. "You are awake." The young woman smiled as her clear, blue eyes, full of intelligence and gentle compassion flashed thoughtfully over Lothirien's face. She placed a cool, gentle hand against the unscathed side of her face, and softly murmured, "How do you feel?"

Lothirien closed her eyes, her mind aching as she forced herself to translate the words in her mind, and then spoke slowly. "B-bad." She stammered, struggling to form words in her mouth that the young mortal could understand.

The maiden pursed her lips sympathetically. "I am sorry." She whispered with concern. "Is it your wound? Does it hurt terribly?"

"Wound?" Lothirien asked. What did that word mean? Oh, it was a struggle to try and understand! She had not spoken the common tongue in centuries.

"You were hurt." The mortal maiden spoke slowly and patiently as she pushed a stray lock of hair behind the curve of her rounded ear. She reached tentatively out to the side of Lothirien's face, but did not quite touch a spot on the side of her face that Lothirien was beginning to note ached and throbbed.

"Where are-, am I?" Lothirien asked softly. The maiden clearly meant no harm, but it was disarming to remember very little of what had happened before, to know nothing of how she had gotten here. She remembered the armory, Haldir's reluctant acceptance of her presence, his embrace, his kiss, but nothing after that.

"You were wounded, my lady." The maiden spoke slowly, and rather sadly. "A piece of grating hit your head. When you were brought in, we thought at first, that you were dead. But you were still breathing."

Lothirien shook her head, understanding little of what the maiden said.

"An Elf brought you to us before he returned to the battle." The maiden continued slowly. "Your brother, I think."

At these words, her memories at last, flooded back. The grating, the wall, the deafening explosion, and the blast of burning pain in the side of her face, flinging her backward, and bringing a cloud of boiling darkness to her mind.

"Husband's brother." Lothirien said slowly. And as she thought of Haldir, she gasped and sat up quickly. But she suddenly regretted doing so, as the incessant nausea that had been gradually gnawing away at her stomach, suddenly clutched her in an overpowering, inescapable wave. It was all she could do to turn her head to the side before she retched. The maiden's hand comfortingly found her shoulder, running across her back now and again as Lothirien's stomach clenched over and over until the entire contents of her stomach were dispelled upon the cold stone of the cave beneath her makeshift bed. She was glad there were no others nearby, though she could hear voices of women and children around a bend of rock.

"I- I a-am sorry." Lothirien stuttered, feeling the shame of her sickness heating her cheeks.

"There is no need to be sorry." The maiden spoke now in a soothing coo, offering her the white cloth so that she might clean the remnants from her lips. "After what you have been through-," she paused as if she did not wish to continued, and her eyes inadvertently fell to Lothirien's flat stomach beneath the cloth of her tunic. She looked as if she wished to speak again, but Lothirien quickly interrupted her.

"My husband." She gulped. "Where?"

"My lady, perhaps you should not-,"

"Where?" Lothirien demanded, shrugging off the maiden's caring arm, and clambering weakly to her feet. Her armor had been removed, and had been set nearby upon a shelf of stone. Her bow and her quiver were there as well, with her sheathed sword beside them but her helmet and cloak were nowhere to be seen. They must have been lost, or ruined, somehow.

The maiden surveyed Lothirien's determined face with an expression that showed both worry and admiration as the Elf strode to her armor, and began to fasten it back upon her body and her limbs.

Lothirien huffed impatiently as she fastened the belt of her quiver and her sword's scabbard across her chest. "I go back. Help fight." Lothirien declared once her armament was as complete as it could be, and her bow was gripped tightly in her fist.

"You are ill prepared to return to the battle." The maiden protested, moving to block her exit from the narrow stone cove. Beyond the young mortal's shoulder, Lothirien could see a path leading away and up the slope of slanting rock face to a narrow opening. That must be the way out.

"You are wounded, and weak." The maiden continued. "I have not even dressed your wound yet-,"

The maiden's words were cut off in the middle of her thought by a gasp of surprise as Lothirien dropped into a crouch upon the floor, spun her leg out, a trick Haldir had taught her centuries before, and caught the maiden's ankle, jerking her weight out from under her, and spilling her, rather awkwardly, onto her backside.

Just as deftly, Lothirien was upon her feet again, and striding toward the pathway that would lead her out. But she had gone not two paces before she felt her own feet jerked out from under her, and with a gasp, she stumbled clumsily to her knees as she heard the metallic rasp of a sword being drawn, not her own. Letting her fall carry her forward, she rolled fully over, until her feet were beneath her again, hopped upright, and drew her sword in the same motion as she turned, to see the maiden, a sword in her hand, the blade inches from her face.

The mortal woman gulped to see Lothirien's sword unsheathed as well, and wavering only a finger's span in front of her.

"Foolish," Lothirien said, drawing her words out carefully as she drew her sword away, and lowered the point toward the ground, "for friends to fight. Yes?"

"Agreed." The maiden conceded, reluctant admiration glowing in her bright blue eyes. "Clearly, you are not as weak as I thought."

And with these words, the maiden stepped back, picked up a leather scabbard that had been leaning against the rough stone wall where Lothirien had not noticed it, and slid the weapon back with a determined clap.

"You show me where to go?" Lothirien asked, her words plaintive. "I go back. My husband is there."

The maiden's eyes softened at this, and a thin smile came to her lips. "That way." She said at last, pointing to the passage Lothirien had noticed before.

"Thank you." Lothirien said, placing a hand upon her heart in a gesture of thanks, and began to turn away before she paused, and as an afterthought turned, and extended her hand. "My name, a- is, Lothirien. Of Lórien."

"Éowyn. Of Rohan." The maiden said, and extended her own hand.

Lothirien clasped her forearm firmly, offered her new friend a slender smile, and turned away toward the cave opening.


	24. Chapter 24

**Lalaith Elerrina-Daughter of Valinor - Chapter 18**

**November 4, 2003**

_Submitted By Lalaith-Elerrina_

Chapter 18

Legolas' arrows were nearly all spent.

The sounds of battle; clanging weapons and the battle shouts of orcs and Elves clashing discordantly, echoed off of the ruined walls of the fortress, and the stone cliffs about him. The muddy, formless sludge that had pooled between the torn, ragged walls had already filled to the brim with the dead bodies of orcs, making it difficult for the orcs that came lumbering through the gap. Yet still they came, and all about him, more bodies were strewn, of orcs, and Elves, as well, more orcs gushing through the gap as each moment passed, streaming in like blood from a gaping wound that could not be staunched. One huge, growling orc was drawing near, its black, hook bladed sword lifted to strike him down, its teeth barred in greedy anticipation for its kill.

Crushing his teeth together in a determined grimace, Legolas reached back, and with the swift, ringing rasp of sliding metal, snatched his white knives from their sheaths upon his back, spinning them forward as the orc lunged at him. With one blade, he blocked the slashing descent of the long, wicked blade, as, he plunged his opposite fist into the beast's jaw, and spun away, plunging his knife into the creature's exposed side as he did. With an enraged, piggish squeal that faded to a gurgle, the orc tumbled to the damp earth, dead. But no sooner had he fallen, than Legolas had more orcs to deal with. The battle here, was over, he despaired as he slashed into one, and then another, only to find himself facing yet more, and others coming through the gap behind those.

Where was Aragorn? Where was Gimli? Where his friends still alive? Out of the corner of his eye, a movement caught his attention. An Elf, clad in dirty, blood smeared armored, plunged into view, her sword at the ready. Legolas' eyes darted to Lothirien, whose helmet and cloak were missing, leaving her long hair to hang freely about her, in drenched, dirty locks.

The long gash upon her face was black and cracked, blood oozing from beneath the charred skin, but she did not seem to notice the pain it was surely causing her as she ducked an orc's swinging blade, and spun her sword as she turn, swinging her blade into the orc's face with a furious light in her eyes, the force so great, that the very metal of the beast's helmet, split. The beast's screech ended in a dying, frothing gurgle as Lothirien spun away, seeking for a familiar face, and lighting upon his.

"Where is Haldir?" She demanded without preamble, her teeth clenched in angry fury.

Her countenance contained no trace of the shy, demur maiden she had once been. At Legolas' startled pause, she darted a step nearer, her stance almost threatening as she shouted, "_Tell me where he is_!"

"Up on the wall!" Legolas cried pointing. "But stay back from there! The orcs are taking it! It is lost!"

With a gasp of fear, and a stubborn shake of her head in the same motion, Lothirien darted off, straight at a thick knot of orcs that blocked her way toward the stone steps set within the wall.

"My lady!" Legolas shouted after her. But she had already disappeared in the surging, clashing tide of orcs and Elves. And Legolas could do nothing, for yet another orc with raised blade, was coming at him, and he was forced to contend with the beast's mindless fury, if he did not wish to die himself.

…

"_Aragorn_!"

At the sound of his name, Aragorn glanced upward, breathless, as the orc he had just stabbed, tumbled in a heavy, dead heap to the ground at his feet.

"Fall back to the Keep!" Théoden's rending cry rang out clearly through the cold, heavy air. "Get your men out of there!"

At Théoden's fraught order, Aragorn's eyes shot about him at the Elves who remained, so few of them left now, compared to the numbers who had arrived, he thought to himself with a hard lump in his throat.

"To the Keep!" He cried out to them, swinging his arm wildly toward the slick stone steps carved into the hard, grey stone of the cliff that led upward to the Keep. But his glance darted away as another orc came at him.

With a harsh clash of steel, their blades met, and with a furious thrust, he dashed aside the beast's thick blade, and brought his elbow down upon its muscled arm, feeling the crunch and crackle of snapping bone as he struck, and the creature uttered a wail of fury. But Aragorn's sword quickly cut off its howl, and with a final dying roar that slowly faded to silence it tumbled to the earth.

"Pull back to the Keep!" He screamed again, as the Elves began a gradual, backward retreat toward the steps. But not all of them were falling back. Upward his eyes climbed toward the top of the wall, to find Haldir, his eyes still burning with unbridled fury as he slashed his sword with limitless energy and hatred into the orcs that still came clambering over the walls.

"Haldir!" He shouted, and the Elf paused a moment to glance down at him. How empty, and haunted and void of hope his eyes looked, almost as if he were already dead and Aragorn flinched involuntarily as he cried out, "To the Keep!"

Haldir gave a terse, almost reluctant nod, and glanced up at the few Elves left with him on the wall, gesturing to them to retreat, as Aragorn had ordered.

"_What are you doing_?"

Gimli's gruff, deep demanding voice came from somewhere nearby, and Aragorn's eyes shot to the Dwarf who was being pulled bodily away from the fighting, by Legolas, and a dark haired Elf from Rivendell.

"_What are you stopping for_?" Gimli continued to protest.

But suddenly a new movement caught Aragorn's eye away from Gimli as a slim, almost sprightly figure slashed her blade into a lumbering orc before she leaped its fallen body. With only a terse glance, Lothirien dashed past the protesting Dwarf, and the Elves who were dragging him back as she scrambled swiftly toward the stone steps leading upward to the parapet.

The harsh wound on the side of her face stood starkly out, red blood seeping from beneath the cracked, charred skin. Her fair hair hung long and freely down her back, clinging in wet dirty locks that brushed back and forth across her back as she ran. She was alive? Aragorn gaped. But she would not remain so if she stayed out here!

Especially as foolishly fearless as she seemed, scrambling straight toward the thick mass of orcs, that were swelling through the ragged breach.

"My lady, get back!" Aragorn screamed as a surge of panic welled in him.

Lothirien paused, but not at Aragorn's order as an orc lunged at her. She dove beneath the uruk's swinging blade, ducking the sword's deadly arch before she rolled in a smooth motion back to one knee, and with a cry, brought her own black-blooded blade, like a scythe, up into its belly.

"No, my lady! Wait!" Aragorn shouted again as the Elf woman leapt to her feet, and started in a dead sprint toward the stone steps of the wall.


	25. Chapter 25

**Lothirien of Lórien - Chapter 10**

**November 10, 2003**

_Submitted By Lalaith-Elerrina_

Lothirien of Lórien

Chapter 10

Upon the wall, Haldir had not heard Aragorn's cry after he had ordered Haldir and his Elves to the Keep. He was not going, after all. Lothirien was dead. There was no reason for him to continue to live. That one fateful explosion had killed his reason to live, for with it, his bride, his lover, the woman who should have been the mother of his children, had been slain.

In his mindless fury, as he had cut through orc after orc, he had not seen her body disappear from where it had fallen. But it was gone now. Doubtless, the orcs had dragged her away and despoiled the body, he thought darkly as he dashed aside another orc's blade as it came at him where he covered the retreat of his men.

He drove his blade hard into the orc's throat, not seeing another orc came at him from the side. He flinched writhing in sudden shock at the pain that slashed into his arm as the beast jammed its blade beneath his shoulder guards, cutting deep into the flesh of his arm.

With a furious thrust of his good arm, he rammed his own blade beneath the orc's breastplate, feeling the soft tearing as his blade cut through skin and intestine. Black bile spilled out upon the stone as the dead orc fell, but he hardly noticed as he looked down, examining his wound with detached curiosity. Orcs were swarming the walls now. His comrades, who had not been slain about him, had all fallen back. He would not survive, but he did not want to.

"Lothirien." He whispered softly beneath his breath, clenching his eyes shut against the pain he knew was moments away as he felt a snorting, growling orc lumber up behind him. But he did not even bother to turn.

…

Lothirien hurdled a cluttered lump of dead orcs as she scrambled toward the stone steps. But as her foot caught the lowest step, she felt a jerk on her ankle, and glanced down to see an orc, mortally wounded. An arrow had cut through its chest and out its back; black blood speckled its lips, spouting forth at every hacking breath it took. Its fist had caught onto her ankle, and though weak, it hung on tenaciously.

"_Marr kurv_." The orc coughed in its own tongue. It wrenched in an attempt to pull her back, but with a swift swipe, Lothirien slashed her blade down, slicing through its wrist. The orc's severed hand fell lifeless from her ankle, and the creature whined as it crumpled forward on its face to move no more.

Lothirien turned away, sprinting up the steps, leaping two and three steps at a time as she flew upward. Orcs were swarming over the balustrade, like black shining beetles in their armor. But Lothirien did not care. Her heart felt little fear. For the last moments she had seen Haldir, he had been on the wall. And she had not seen him among the others who had managed to fall back at Aragorn's order.

Her lungs were burning as she leapt the last distance, scrambling to the top of the parapet, and her eyes shot to the one bright spot of color upon the wall. Haldir's crimson cloak, in the moments before an orc lumbered near and brought its axe down, striking with a dull thud, into Haldir's back.

Lothirien's mind froze as she saw him stiffen from the pain, and fall heavily to his knees. She heard a scream of fury, and realized with deadened senses, that it had come from her own throat. Conscious thought left her.

She could hear Lord Aragorn's voice somewhere down on the ground below, crying out Haldir's name as well. But she paid it no heed. She watched in numb fascination through her own eyes as she plunged toward the creature as it growled and turned toward her. The violence of her attack caught it off guard as she swung her sword into its exposed throat. She felt the soft resistance as her sword punctured the skin and the rough grating as the blade scraped along the bone of the orc's spine. With its head half severed, the vile creature tumbled heavily over the balustrade to fall beyond the wall.

And as it disappeared, feeling returned to her in a wave of wrenching, tearing grief.

"Haldir!" She cried out, as, half slipping upon the blood covered parapet, she scrambled to her husband, where he had fallen to his knees from the strike of the orc's blade.

"Haldir." She repeated, weeping as she reached him, and collapsed to her knees before him. Her sword fell beside her with a hollow, rattling clang upon the stone.

His eyes set with in a blank mask of pain, blinked at her.

Her hands found his face, his skin, supple and warm as it had always been. "Haldir," she sobbed.

"Lothirien. My little flower." He breathed. He tried to lift a hand, to touch her, but the effort was too great, and it fell back to his side. "I thought-, you were dead."

How weak his voice was! Yet how filled with glad emotion.

"No. I am alive. I am here now, my love." She choked, brushing his strong brow and his smooth cheeks with trembling hands. "I am with you. I will not leave you."

"No." He protested in a weak, despairing voice. "Get away. Flee. To the Keep."

"Not without you." She breathed gently.

"It is too late for me." Haldir murmured weakly. He blinked his eyes, loving her with his gaze. "I am sorry. I cannot fulfill my vow."

"No, Haldir." Lothirien gasped softly. As the meaning of his words entered her reluctant thoughts, she spoke louder, "We were to be together for all the ages of this world. Without you, I will die! I love you!" Her last words were an almost accusatory cry.

"You are strong, Lothirien." Haldir muttered pleadingly. "Live, for my sake."

He drew in a weak breath, as he slowly blinked his fading eyes. "I love you." He breathed.

"I am yours forever, Haldir." She whispered in return, answered only by a fading smile.

The scrape of boots entered her thoughts, and she became aware of Lord Aragorn pouncing to the top of the near steps, behind Haldir.

He scrambled near and caught Haldir's shoulders in his arms just as the last of the light in his eyes, focused lovingly on her, sparked and faded.

Lothirien stared with disbelieving, tearless eyes as Haldir's head fell back upon Aragorn's arm, his eyes gazing sightlessly up at the starless sky.

"Haldir?" She breathed, unable to comprehend what had happened as Aragorn with a low sigh, clapped his hand upon Haldir's shoulder in a mournful farewell. She could not fathom this. They were meant to return to Lórien together. He had promised her that they would. And that they would spend many more warm, passionate nights together, wrapped in each other's unbreakable embrace. They were to have a child together. This-, this could not be.

She could not feel anything, did not see anything but her husband's face as Aragorn, seeing something behind her, leaped up, roughly dropping Haldir from his arm as he did.

"My lady!" He shouted, grasping her arm, and pulling her back with him.

"No!" She screamed suddenly, coming to herself. She jerked her arm from his hold, throwing herself across Haldir's unresponsive form. "I cannot leave him! Let me stay!"

Aragorn though, paid no heed to her pleadings, and forcefully ripped her away from Haldir's body as dark snorting creatures, orcs, her mind barely registered, rushed toward them, swarming from both sides, and clambering up the stairs toward them as well.

Snatching her around the waist with one arm, he lunged toward a ladder that had clapped up against the parapet, and shot his arm through two of the rungs, slamming his fist into the face of the orc that clambered to the top. With a mighty kick, Aragorn, clinging to Lothirien with one arm, and the ladder with the other, thrust away from the wall as orcs swarmed near, swinging their cruel swords at the pair as the ladder plunged in a downward arch.

Lothirien felt herself falling, saw the ground, swarming with orcs, rushing up to meet her. But in the last moment, Aragorn, still refusing to release her, leaped from the ladder, dragging her along with him, and the two plowed hard into a knot of orcs.

Lord Aragorn, Lothirien understood now, in the back of her numb, unfeeling mind, would not go without her. If she were to fight him, and allow herself to be slain as she wanted, Aragorn would die as well, trying to save her. For his sake, she decided, she should cooperate. For the moment.

"Come, my lady!" Aragorn shouted. And at last, she did not resist as he snatched her arm and pushed her ahead of him toward the stone stairs that led steeply upward into the Keep. Obliging the young mortal, she ran ahead on the heels of the other retreating Elves as Aragorn's sword cut down orcs as they came lunging upward at them. Her sword, she realized, she had left behind her on the wall. But that was a small matter, considering what else she had left there. They ran on, ever upward, and the orcs began slowly to fall behind, cut down by the arrows flying from the bows of Elves already within the shelter of the Keep, covering their retreat. She ran, not out of any desire to live, for that was gone. But only to save Lord Aragorn. For he would fight to save her, she knew. Whether she wanted him to, or not.

"This way." Lord Aragorn commanded breathlessly when at last, they past beneath a stone archway, and arrived on a level parapet, high against the walls of the cliff, washed still by the cold winds, and the trickling remnants of the sky's tears. He snatched her arm and tugged her behind him as he ran on into the shelter of the Keep, and into a great hall of stone, great smoking torches lining the walls. Many of the wounded had been lain here, their wounds hurriedly being treated. Rumil and Orophin were both here. Orophin, his face pale, almost white, sat heavily against one wall, wincing as Rumil hastily wrapped a long bloody gash on his leg in a long strip of cloth.

Both brothers had been wounded. A bandage of white cloth had been wrapped hastily around Rumil's right shoulder. He was clearly out of the fighting, though he was not as seriously wounded as his brother.

"Stay here, my lady." Aragorn ordered hastily before he turned away.

"No! I am uninjured!" She barked, striding after him. "Lend me a sword, or a bow and quiver of arrows, and I can fight. I will come with you."

"I will not have you in the thick of the fighting." Aragorn commanded her, fire in his eyes, as he turned, grasped her arm and shook her. "You would not come with me to help, but to be slain. No, my lady." He hissed, as she began to shake her head. "I know it, as well as you. I would keep you from that." Turning to Haldir's younger brothers, he barked, "See that she stays here."

Rumil turned toward Aragorn and studied his sister-in-law's red, empty eyes as he cradled his limp arm, and softly queried, "Where is Haldir?"

Aragorn glanced about, almost as if seeking for some sort of escape, before he answered quietly, "Dead."

Rumil and his wounded brother took the news with stiffened countenances as Aragorn ordered again, "Keep her here."

Wordlessly, Rumil nodded.

Lothirien flung her back against the wall with a howl of frustration as Aragorn turned and dashed off, his sword clenched tightly within his fist. Slowly she sagged down to the ground, tucking her knees in close to her chest, and wrapping her arms around her legs. She buried her face against her knees and closed her eyes. And slowly, the grim heat of battle faded from her veins. Like a great painful weight, the full of her pain, unfettered, unrestrained, fell upon her, and she began to weep.

_Haldir, my beloved._ Her mind cried as she sobbed, catching the mournful, sympathetic eyes of those about her. _You are gone from me. Gone, and I am to blame. Had you not thought I was dead, you would have retreated with the others. It is all my fault._

With these thoughts, her strength failed her entirely, and she collapsed to the rough stone beneath her. She curled herself against the wall, and continued to sob, hard wrenching inconsolable sobs, as she pictured Haldir's face again. Not his dead sightless face as Aragorn dragged her away from his body, but as he had been when he was alive, shining with life and love upon their wedding day. And then later, in the warmth of the night, beneath the silver moonlight that seeped through the branches overhead, through the fluted screens of their flet. His eyes had been dark with desire for her, a desire she had eagerly shared.

He had been shy at first, sweetly and endearingly so. As she had been. But as the night had deepened, their shared trust, and their yearning for each other had taken claim, and they had cast their fears aside, each tender, passionate encounter more beautiful than the last. It was not until the early morning hours that they had at last succumbed to an exhausted sleep in the warmth of one another's embrace.

She had nothing now. Nothing. The emptiness of her future opened up before her, like a dark, cold pit, bottomless, into which she was doomed to fall. She could not live with the emptiness. Perhaps, tonight, in spite of Lord Aragorn's efforts, her fate would claim her anyway, as her mother's had, when her father died.

A warmth, though, within her stomach, a churning little ball of warmth, brought her thoughts away from her doom, and she put a hand to her belly, wondering what was it was. It was not uncomfortable, but yet, its presence was unignorable. What was it?

Slowly, the memory of the words she and Haldir had exchanged in their flet returned to her mind, and her choking sobs eased as their words slowly filtered through her mind.

"_What if you are carrying our child_?" He had pled, desperately seeking for a reason to keep her safe.

"_I have not conceived after one night,_" she had scoffed in return as thanks for his anxiety to protect her.

But what if she had? It was possible, after all. Oh, if she indeed carried his child, then perhaps it would give her a chance to redeem herself before she gave in to the blackness of her doom. If she had a child to live for, she could find the strength to last long enough to give Haldir's child life, a child who carried the blood of her beloved in its veins, who would live when she had failed to save its father.

Lothirien clung to this thought, desperately, pleadingly, where she lay curled upon the cold stone as her sobs faded slowly, and a reluctant sleep claimed her at last.


	26. Chapter 26

**Lalaith Elerrina-Daughter of Valinor - Chapter 19**

**November 11, 2003**  
_Submitted By Lalaith-Elerrina_

Chapter 19

Legolas paused in the midst of the fighting that raged around him, setting an arrow to the string as he watched the great ladders slowly rising, monoliths, compared to the smaller ladders with which the orcs had laid siege to the deeping wall. They were thick and wide, levered up to the outer wall by heavy iron missiles with multi-hooked heads, shot to the top of the wall by massive ballistae, giant cross-bows, huge machines of war, the inventions of Saruman's warmongering mind.

Two of these great ladders, wide enough to allow two orcs at a time to ascend, had already been clamped firmly against the outer curve of the wall, and a third was slowly being levered upward, rising as the others had, only with the help of thick cables looped through a metal ring affixed to the end of the great hooked missile that had jammed itself immovably within a broken wedged on the wall. The ladder had been levered nearly vertical now, the thick rope that pulled it upward drawn as tight as a bowstring against the unimaginable weight of wood as well as armored orcs eagerly impatient to be the first to the parapet. Drawing his string back to his cheek, he sighted down the shaft of his arrow, his eye fixed burningly upon the taut cable, and released. An instant later, his arrow clipped through the rope and it fell slack, like a dead snake, flipping from the hard iron ring. The ladder, perfectly vertical now, wavered, then slowly tipped backward, gaining speed as it plummeted heavily, laden with uruks and their heavy armor, to the ground in a deafening crash crushing many dozens of orcs beneath it.

But now, he had another worry. Aragorn and Gimli were without the wall, fighting alone upon the causeway in an effort to give the king and his men time to shore up the door, shattered inward by the repeated hammerings of the battering ram.

He could see them now as he caught up a length of heavy rope, and rushed toward the edge of the wall. Man and Dwarf stood back to back, hacking away at the uruks, while within the wall, Théoden and his men worked desperately to wedge great stout beams against the door.

"Gimli! Aragorn!" Legolas heard Théoden's voice cry out, "Get out of there!"

But in the moments the words were spoken, a great snorting uruk lunged from behind, wrapping its thick arms around both Gimli's and Aragorn's necks. Legolas' heart nearly choked him as the creature whipped around toward its fellow orcs as they came scrambling near to kill the two.

"Aragorn!" He shouted, as he leaped to the balustrade, flinging the thick rope over the side. Aragorn managed to elbow the uruk hard in the side, and it fell to the stone of the causeway, winded, giving the Man and Dwarf a chance to scramble toward the rope, Gimli not before he brought his axe with a vindictive chop, down upon the fallen orc.

With all the strength he possessed, Legolas wrenched the rope, creaking with the weight of both Man and Dwarf, upward over the hard stone edge of the balustrade.

_Why_ did that stout little Dwarf have to eat so much? He wondered, slowly wrenching them upward as the muscles in his arms and back burned from the fierce effort, though Men came behind him to assist him. Any moment, he feared, an orc arrow would find the two, hanging exposed over the wall, like dead carrion above so many hungry wargs. At long last, Aragorn's hand, tightened in a fist around the thick rope appeared over the edge of the stone barrier. Eagerly, Legolas grabbed it, grasping onto Aragorn's shoulder and hauling the Dwarf and Man unceremoniously over the balustrade.

"Pull everybody back." He heard Théoden order, his voice full of bitter anger. "Pull them back!"

"Fall back!" Shouted the voice of Gamling, his voice echoing the angry and tragic command of the king. "Fall back!"

Legolas felt sickened at the order, though he understood it. The wall was lost. It would be foolish and stay to die for something that was as good as taken already.

As if to add to the king's order, the great oaken doors beneath them shuddered, cracked once, and then flew inward beneath the uruk's pounding.

"They have broken through!" Théoden's voice cried above the escalated din of battle as the crack of the doors echoed ominously through the stone. "The castle is breached. Retreat! Retreat!"

Beneath the parapet, dark armored orcs, white paint splattering their armor in the shapes of Saruman's hand, streamed through, thick, swarming beetles, they seemed.

Disgust rising like bile in his throat, Legolas released several more arrows into the invading horde even as Aragorn cried, "Hurry! Inside! Get them inside!" And the surviving defenders of the wall at last abandoned their posts and fled across the stone span leading into the deeper fortifications of the Keep.

"I will leave you at the western borders of the forest." Treebeard's voice rumbled below her, but Lalaith, in her somber mood, did not pay any heed to his words as he added slowly, "You can make your way north to your own homelands from there."

Lalaith glanced at Merry who sat on a branch below her and to her right, and the two traded a despondent glance.

Why had she not been able to convince the Ents that their help was so desperately needed? Her mother had said that they would. What had she not said that the Ents needed to hear? Lalaith glanced down at her booted toes, her legs curled near to her where she sat within a crook of Treebeard's branches. Dark clouds of self doubt boiled in her mind. And sorrow as well. Thick sorrow that weighed her down, as dark and as heavy a grief as she felt as when she thought of Boromir, knowing that he was dead. But the grief was not for Boromir, nor was it for her failure in convincing the Ents. It was separate, a thing of its own, a new grief for someone else, someone as dear as Boromir had been to her. The feeling haunted her, distant, insubstantial. A premonition of something, though what, she did not know.

"Wait! Stop!" Pippin's voice interrupted her troubled thoughts, and she glanced up at him where he sat above her, in the very tips of the old Ent's branches.

"Stop!" He repeated, and the booming rhythm of Treebeard's steps grew silent.

"Turn around." Pippin chirped. "Turn around. Take us south."

"South?" Treebeard wondered. "But that would-," he drew in a deep breath, "lead you past Isengard!"

Lalaith traded a questioning look with Merry at these words. Had the youngest Hobbit gone completely mad?

"Yes. Exactly." Pippin added in a calm, smiling voice. "If we go south, we can slip past Saruman unnoticed. The closer we are to danger, the farther we are from harm." There was a smile in Pippin's voice as he finished, "It's the last thing he'll expect."

Lalaith shook her head in utter dismay. Now she _knew_ Pippin was mad! They would all be caught!

Treebeard seemed to agree as he mumbled in concern, and muttered, "That doesn't make sense to me. But then-," his wooden head nodded slowly, "you are all somewhat small. Perhaps you're right."

He sighed slowly, as the rocking motion of his branches resumed, and his slow steps began again to boom over the forest floor.

"South it is then." He breathed, as he turned his steps to his left, and started marching toward the misty haze beneath the trees that wound southward. "Hold on, little Shirelings, and my young Valië. I always like going south. Somehow," he breathed, "it feels like going downhill."

"Pippin, _what_ on in Arda, are you doing?" Lalaith demanded, glancing upward at Pippin's lightly smiling face.

"Are you mad?" Merry added. "We'll be caught!"

"No we won't." Pippin smiled gently. "Not this time. Trust me." With a grin at Lalaith, he finished, "You gave me an idea, Lalaith. I think it will help us."

"What idea?" She demanded.

"Just wait and see." Pippin added in a near whisper, and grinned, leaving Lalaith to wonder what he could possibly mean.

"And those little family of field mice-," Lalaith smiled as she listened to Treebeard's narration of a few of his many little woodland visitors from where she sat, curled drowsily on his branch, twirling the end of her golden braid absently between her fingers. "-that climb up sometimes, and they tickle me awfully!"

His low rumbling voice sounded rather cheerful, bringing up Lalaith's spirits a little, and helping her to forget, at least for the moment, that he would be leaving them once they arrived at the edge of the forest. "They're always trying to get somewhere where they-,"

Without warning, Treebeard's steps suddenly stopped. A mournful groan came from deep within his throat, bringing Lalaith's head up, questions filling her mind, that were suddenly yet sadly answered by the view that met her gaze.

Dead tree trunks littered the empty ground, giving them a clear view of the distant river, the Entwash as it flowed out and away from the forest of Fangorn. Yet Lalaith's attention was down the slope toward Isengard, a great ring round a flat circle of land, the black tower of Orthanc set within the center. Black clouds of smoke every billowed up from ragged chasms cut down into the earth. Here and there, a tree that had been roughly severed from its roots, lay sprawled upon the ground, as disturbing for Lalaith to see, as if it were the corpse of an animal, slain cruelly and slowly, and not even for its meat, but simply for the pleasure of killing something, and then left to rot.

"Many of these trees were my friends." Treebeard mourned, as Lalaith glanced upward at Pippin's face, his little countenance both triumphant and sad. At his glance down into her face, she understood now, what he had done. "Creatures I had known from nut and acorn."

"I'm sorry, Treebeard." Pippin murmured consolingly.

Treebeard, Lalaith realized, was grieving as greatly now, as if she had wandered into Imladris, only to find it smoking in a ruined heap. These trees were not simple, senseless creatures to Treebeard. They were his companions, his friends. His surprise and his pain seemed a palpable thing as he gazed over the hacked and ruined trunks.

"They had voices of their own." He continued, his eyes sweeping over the ruin, stopping at last on the distant scene of Isengard, smoke billowing ever upward.

"Saruman." He growled, low. "A wizard should know better!"

Lalaith had to grasp a branch to steady herself. For the Ent, she realized, was actually beginning to shake from the rage and the pain that were building inside of his wooden heart. And at last, the great old Ent, lifted up his head, drew in a deep throated breath, and released a great howl, wild and enduring, that did not doubt reached all the edges of the forest, echoing long and away through the deeps of the trees before it faded at last, in the far distance.

"There is no curse in Elvish, Entish, or the tongues of Men, for this treachery." Treebeard growled fiercely. "My business is with Isengard tonight-," he breathed roughly, "with rock and stone."

Behind her, Lalaith heard a great creaking echo approaching, the creaking sound of wood slowly rumbling into motion. And she glanced over her shoulder as Merry did, and Pippin, a moment later.

Ents, some she recognized from the Entmoot, and others, many others, who were entirely knew to her, came tromping slowly, yet steadily from the trees into the ruined graveyard before them. Their wise golden eyes scanned the prostrate forms of the trunks rotting about them, and in their wooden faces, Lalaith saw the horror and anger that shivered now through Treebeard.

"Yes." Merry muttered, in a muted, though jubilant tone.

"Come my friends." Treebeard rumbled. "The Ents are going to war." Slowly, he began to march forward, his feet striking again in resonant booms. "It is likely that we go to our doom." He breathed in a low, rumbling breath. "Last march of the Ents."

In spite of his doomful words, Lalaith allowed herself a tentative smile. Pippin had thought of what she had not, but had taken an idea she had given to him. And so, with the young Hobbit's help, she had indeed succeeded.

The Ents had been roused.


	27. Chapter 27

**Lalaith Elerrina-Daughter of Valinor - Chapter 20**

**November 12, 2003**  
_Submitted By Lalaith-Elerrina_

Chapter 20

Once again, the door boomed and shuddered, as beyond, Saruman's orcs rammed their spike ended battering ram into the hard oak of the door.

Wooden ceiling joists, benches, whatever was to be had within the hall, Aragorn and those around him, were bracing against the door.

"The fortress is taken."

Théoden's voice was haunted, void of hope where he stood within the door, Gamling at his side. Aragorn lifted his eyes, though not toward the king, but toward Lothirien.

"It is over."

At the king's words, Lothirien lifted her head from her knees where she sat unmoving beside the stone wall, and gazed at Théoden, her blue eyes hollow and empty. Her golden hair hung disheveled and dirty about her where she sat, wordless, and alone. Rumil and Orophin had left her, having gone elsewhere to help, and she remained, alone and silent, like a thin, wispy shadow, watching all, but saying nothing.

"You said this fortress would never fall while your men defend it." Aragorn cried, as he with Legolas behind him, came to snatch up yet another wooden bench to thrust against the door, and the ceaseless ramming of the orcs beyond.

"They still defend it. The have died defending it!" he cried, striding nearer to the king as Legolas caught up the long wooden bench himself, and hoisted it toward the Men who were desperately shoving whatever brace they could find to keep the doors from giving way.

Théoden looked away, shameful and silent.

"Is there no other way for the women and children to get out of the caves?" Aragorn demanded, glancing at Lothirien's dim eyes as Legolas grasped the edge of a nearby table, flinging off the contents with a clatter, as he jerked it toward the door, then stepped back, a look of grim resignation on his face as he caught one of his few remaining arrows from his quiver and fitted it to the string, waiting with maddening calm for the door to shatter inward.

"Is there no other way?" Aragorn shouted, when Théoden did not answer.

"There is one passage." Gamling answer at last, with a tentative glance at his king. "It leads into the mountains." As another resounding crash bent the doors inward, he quickly added, "But they will not get far the uruk-hai are too many."

"Send word for the women and children to make for the mountain pass." Aragorn demanded, clapping his hand pleadingly upon Gamling's shoulder. "And barricade the entrance!"

"So much death." Théoden muttered in a flat voice, and as Aragorn glanced at him, he realized that the king's eyes were almost as empty as the lady Lothirien's. "What can Men do against such reckless hate?"

Aragorn glanced over at Lothirien, and her eyes lifted toward his. They were empty of any trace of happiness, but there was something in them now, that had not been in them the night before. When he had left her here last, there had been a wild light in them, a longing to die, but not now, as if now she had found some glimmer of hope to live for.

"Ride out with me." He said to Théoden, almost under his breath.

Lothirien lifted her head higher as he spoke these words. She understood enough of the common tongue, he knew, to have comprehended his words.

"Ride out and meet them."

Théoden's head also lifted at this, and he studied Aragorn's eyes hard. "For death and glory." He hissed.

"For Rohan." Aragorn breathed. "For your people."

A soft brush brought his eyes around to Lothirien. She had stood.

"Let me come," she said in softened Elvish tones. "Lend me a horse and a blade, and I will ride out with you."

"My lady-," Aragorn began, but fell silent at a wave from her hand.

"No, Arathornion. Do not deny me this!" she cut in firmly. "I could be slain as easily cowering in here, as I could out there with a sword in my hand. If I am fated to die, I would rather Haldir know I fought until the end." Drawing in a broken sigh, she added more gently, "I swear to you, my lord, I do not wish to do this simply to allow the orcs to kill me. I have reason now, to stay alive, if I can." Stepping near, she clasped his arm in thin, trembling fingers. "My lord, you must let me do this."

Aragorn drew in a slow breath, feeling himself softening as he gazed into her tempered blue eyes. Lothirien would not be turned aside any more easily than Lalaith could, or the Lady Éowyn, he thought with a wane smile. Slender, strong tempered blades of steel, each of them, as courageous as any man.

Aragorn clapped a hand upon her armored shoulder, so small, and seemingly frail, though he knew the soul of a fearless warrior existed within. "Then we shall ride out together."

At this, a slivered smile drew the corners of her lips upward.

"The sun is rising."

The low spoken words came from Gimli, bringing Aragorn's head up toward the high slotted window that peered out toward the east.

True to the Dwarf's word, a ray of cool, early morning sunlight streamed in through the high window, growing gradually brighter, until it filled the room with golden light.

_Look to my coming at first light on the fifth day._ Gandalf's promise once again echoed in his mind, as if from ages past. _At dawn, look to the east._

"Yes." Théoden hissed, his eyes growing bright with a new, fierce hope. Aragorn's eyes lowered to the king's. "Yes." He repeated, stronger now. "The horn of Helm Hammerhand," he declared, a firm strength entering his voice, "shall sound in the Deep. One last time."

"Yes." Gimli crowed, brandishing up his axe. Even as another splintering crash rocked the door inward.

Théoden strode near, clapping one hand upon Aragorn's shoulder, and the other upon Lothirien's. "Let this be the hour when we draw swords together."

Without needing the order, Gimli scampered away through the arching doorway where worn and ragged stone steps wound up and away toward the great horn.

"Send for horses!" The king commanded as the Dwarf disappeared, but the words were hardly out of his mouth before several of the Rohirrim, guessing the king's order, came running from a side corridor with several horses, already saddled and bridled.

Aragorn snatched the reins of Brego and Hasufel, giving Hasufel's leather reins, into Lothirien's hands.

"Hasufel is his name. He will bear you faithfully," he said as she swung easily into the saddle as if she had ridden all her life.

"My lady. Your blade." he said with a terse nod, picking up from the stone floor, a discarded sword, notched yet still sharp, and offering the hilt up to her.

"Thank you, my lord." She nodded, clasping the sword, and lifting the blade, giving several swipes at the air to test its weight as Aragorn leaped into the saddle of his own mount. Beside him, Legolas, grim faced, was already seated upon Arod's back, awaiting the orcs to breach the cracking barricade.

"Fell deeds awake." Théoden breathed as he turned his mount's head toward the cracking door as again the orc's battering ram boomed beyond it. "Now for wrath," he hissed in a fierce voice as Aragorn drew his sword with a harsh rasp, "now for ruin, and a red dawn."

Théoden pulled his kingly helmet upon his head as the horn of Helm Hammerhand for whom the fortress had been named, gave a fierce, blast, echoing long and deep through the halls, between the great high cliffs of the ravine, and above the armies of Saruman.

In the next moment, the door shattered inward.

Legolas set his jaw hard. Heated fury flowed into his blood as the door at last, weary from its tiring battle with the orcs beyond, finally lost its strength and fell, shattering inward, and orcs like so many armored beetles came streaming through.

"Forth, Eorlingas!" Came the cry of King Théoden, beneath the ever enduring blast of the great horn, as his sword whipped above his head.

As one, the horsemen sprang forward, Legolas only a short breadth behind the king, Aragorn's mount beside him with the lady Lothirien riding fearlessly at Aragorn's shoulder, her fair eyes hard and set. A warrior's eyes.

Over the invading orcs the horses plunged, Legolas' sword hacking wrathfully down upon the helms and bodies of the howling grasping beasts, splitting helmets and piercing through thick breastplates in his tireless anger. Out upon the pillared porch the horses' hooves clattered, the blades of their riders furiously flashing as they sliced like a wedge through the surging tide of mottled orcish bodies. To the invading orcs, such a surge came as a bitter, unexpected shock. They had not expected such a strong last defense, furtive, and perhaps hopeless, Legolas admitted to himself, though only in the dark unexplored corners of his mind.

Ever as he cut and hacked his way through the orcs, down the steep stone steps and round the curving walls of the Keep toward the shattered gate, his thoughts were on Lalaith. He had to believe he would see her again. He could not let himself think otherwise. Even as the riders, Théoden at their head, shot through the gate, spilling orcs over the edges as they plunged onto the causeway, and he saw the black sea of them still surging below. So many orcs yet remained, lumbering up the causeway like thick black moss creeping up over the bark of a tree, leaving sickness and rot in its wake.

The lady Lothirien hardly seemed taken aback at all by the undefeatable masses below her as she set her teeth hard, hacking and stabbing at any of the foul beasts that dared to approach her, cutting them down as fiercely as any of the other men.

But could they defeat them all? Would their strength last against such numbers? Doubting questions began to creep unwanted from the hidden corners of his mind. But then at a murmured word from Aragorn, Legolas' fears fell back, dying quickly like the orcs beneath his blade.

"Gandalf!" Aragorn uttered breathlessly. Legolas looked up from the orc he had cut down, his eyes lifting toward the high eastern ridge of the ravine, where a figure appeared within the rising light of the morning as if he had ridden out of the sun itself.

A figure in white sat with ease upon a white stallion, a staff clasped in his hand as Shadowfax lifted itself up upon its hind legs, pawing anxiously at the air.

"My lady!" he cried to Lothirien, as stabbed through an orc's throat, then looked up as she heard his voice. "Look! Mithrandir!" he called out, pointing with his sword and grinned as hope, long dormant within him, surged within his heart, bright and glad as an armored figure, the familiar white horsetail trailing from the crest of his helm, appeared beside Gandalf.

Her eyes shot up to the high ridge, and a thin look of grim satisfaction cast itself slowly over her face.

"Rohirrim!" The young man's voice echoed easily across the distance as a great host of mounted warriors appeared over the ridge at his side.

"Éomer." Théoden murmured, pride rising in his voice as for his own son.

"To the king!" Éomer's strong voice cried out across the pooled masses of orcs, and as one, the riders of Rohan came streaming, over the ridge in a swift, flood of numberless horses and riders, Éomer and Gandalf at their head.

Screeching, fierce and angry, the orcs turned toward the descending flood, and lowered their cruel jagged bladed spears, meaning to impale Shadowfax and the first of the horses through their chests. But in the final moments before Gandalf and the sea of riders reached the jagged line of spears, the sun, clear and white, crested the ridge, glaring blindingly straight into the eyes of the orcs. Throwing up their hands in maddened confusion, Gandalf and Éomer plunged into them, their mounts easily leaping the wavering, fallen line of orcish spears as the orcs fell beneath their hooves, screaming in terror as the blades of the Rohirrim cut them down in their sightless confusion, giving way gradually as the mounted soldiers sliced their way slowly toward their king.

"Treebeard, Treebeard, look!" Lalaith cried, leaping from her seat upon Treebeard's back, and gesturing frantically at a gathering of hunched and scrawny orcs, that had managed to loop a thick rope around one Ent's neck, and had yanked him to the ground. They were swarming over him now, like infesting ants, hacking into his wooden body, with sharp cracking axes.

"Mind your head, my little Valië!" Treebeard roared to Lalaith who stood, perched precariously upon his shoulder.

Ducking her head, Lalaith clung tightly on as Treebeard reached down, and picked up a giant boulder. He lifted it above his head with a great groan, and then with a mighty roar, he flung it at the swarming orcs, scattering and crushing them as it bowled over them with a thunderous rumble. The Ent, who had given his name as Bregalad in her language or Quickbeam, in the common tongue, Lalaith recalled from their brief introduction before the battle began, was hardly injured at all. He was one of the younger Ents, taller and more supple of movement than Treebeard, and rather hasty, Treebeard had tisked, for an Ent. Quickbeam lumbered to his feet, and offered Treebeard, and his three small charges a grateful wave before he lumbered enthusiastically off to crush more orcs beneath his splayed root toes.

"Yes!" Pippin cheered at Quickbeam's rescue, the three of them clinging tightly to Treebeard's branches as the old Ent turned back to his own business of stomping orcs beneath his own heavy wooden feet. "Here, Lalaith, have another rock!"

Pippin was the keeper of the rocks, a small pile of stones Lalaith and the two Hobbits had hurriedly gathered into the little star-silver blanket, from a ragged gash the Ents had torn open in the wall that ringed Isengard. Pippin held the little blanket now like a knap-sack, withdrawing rocks now and then so that the three of them could fling stones at the orcs lumbering and squealing below them.

He tossed her one, a rather sharp, flat stone, which she caught deftly in one hand.

"Watch this!" Lalaith cried with a hint of laughter in her voice as she took careful aim, and flung the rock in a horizontal arch as if she meant to skip it across a lake. Instead, it smacked into the head of an orc, before it hurtled wildly into the back of another orc's head, knocking them both to the ground.

"Pah! That was luck!" Pippin protested gleefully before he grabbed a rock himself, and pitched it at an orc where it stood at the edge of one of the chasms that had been gouged harshly down into the earth. With a fading squeal, it toppled over the precipice, and disappeared below.

"Ah, fine hits, both of them!" Treebeard praised cheerfully.

Pippin tossed one now to Merry, who flung it fiercely at yet another orc, the stone connecting with its skull in a hollow thump, sending the creature sprawling into the earth.

Lalaith stood higher upon Treebeard's shoulder, clinging to one of his smaller branches as she surveyed the scene around her. The smoking ring of Isengard into which they had penetrated, looked like as if an entire forest had come awake. Ents were tromping swiftly about, swinging their branching arms, or other great clubs they had snatched up, smacking orcs about, or crushing them beneath their feet as the vile beasts scurried vainly about in a futile attempt to escape. Others simply kicked them into oblivion with their long gangly wooden legs like so many annoying little rats. Here and there, a group of two or three Ents would grasp their branching fingers around many of the high wooden scaffolds or the great wooden wheels, and with but two or three tugs, would send them crashing down. One into the pits, smashing orcs below them as they fell.

One rather stout Ent had found an ingenious way of disposing of the orcs, for he would snatch up two of the beasts at a time, and with a great crack, smack their heads together before flinging their limp bodies aside. It seemed almost humorous, but for the grisly work that it was.

"Oh no! Look!" Merry cried, a sudden surge of panic in his voice, and as Treebeard swiveled to see what it was that had caught Merry's attention, a low, deep gasp came to his throat.

A cry escaped Lalaith's throat as well, for another of the Ents Treebeard knew well, an Ent named Beechbone, was on fire! Several orcs, it seemed, had fired blazing arrows at him, and now the poor Ent was thrashing about in a pained panic as he flamed like a torch.

Treebeard swiveled, his eyes rising toward the great stone dam high within the foothills of the mountain above Isengard. Many Ents were already scaling up the steep ravine, toward the great stone barricade that held back the river.

"Break the dam!" Treebeard cried, his deep booming voice carrying easily up the ragged ravine. "Release the river!"

One of the Ents had already grasped onto the thick beams of metal bracing the stone of the dam in place, and as Treebeard's voice rolled up the mountain, the metal beams were ripped effortlessly away. The Ent turned, striding slowly away and up a steep incline as a spurt of water burst forth from between the stones. The streaming rush of water grew rapidly into a bursting torrent, pushing the massive blocks of stone out of its way, until the entire dam caved downward under the unbearable pressure of the water carrying wood and stone, and squealing orcs along with it. Down the ravine it poured in a crashing, deafening torrent, its speed only increasing as it thundered into the valley of Nan Curunír, and into the ring surrounding Orthanc.

"Pippin, Lalaith, hold on!" Merry shouted as the vast torrent of water boomed closer and doomed orcs streamed screeching past Treebeard's legs in a vain attempt to escape the deluge.

Treebeard braced his stout legs into the ground, and the Hobbits and Lalaith clasped hard onto his branches as the flood approached, and with a deafening boom, crashed around Treebeard and his fellow Ents, throwing him backward a step before he recovered his balance.

"_Merry_!" Pippin's voice screeched, and as spray washed her vision, Lalaith jerked her eyes toward the youngest Hobbit, whose grip on Treebeard's slippery branch broke away. His arms flailed wildly, but the weight of the little bundle of rocks only jerked him out of Treebeard's branches, With a cry, he fell backward, a look of stark horror on his face, toward the foaming deluge.

"Pippin!" Lalaith screamed, and without thought, dove away from Treebeard's shoulder after him, catching his small wrist in the very instant they both disappeared beneath the cold, surging water.

Silence closed in around her, and she could see nothing. She felt Pippin's wrist within her hand, and she clung tightly, not allowing herself to let go as the torrent swept them both away, tumbling them over submerged broken scaffolding, and jagged rocks. She could not tell where she was, where the surface was, or even why the speed of the water seemed only to increase. She wondered, detachedly, if the reason for the speed of the water, was that it might be pouring in an unrestrained waterfall down into one of the many deep, fire gouged caverns. Somewhere far away as if from some unreachable distance, she heard voices high pitched and panicked, calling her name, and Pippin's name. But they were fading in her ears.

She felt light, as if she had grown suddenly weightless, and a single thought spoke vehemently to her thoughts as darkness welled in her mind. _Do not let go of Pippin._ And then she felt nothing at all.


	28. Chapter 28

**Lothirien of Lórien - Chapter 11**

**November 13, 2003**  
_Submitted By Lalaith-Elerrina_

Chapter 11

Lothirien heard him approaching from behind her, but she did not glance away from the mound of newly turned earth beneath where her love lay. Carefully, she smoothed the moist earth around the small yellow flowers she had planted upon the mound. It was mere luck that she had found them where she did, growing bright and golden in a patch of rich earth that had settled in a protected cleft of rock, a small patch of color in an otherwise grey cliff of stone. Here upon Haldir's grave, they were only two brave little spots of gold, but she hoped they would increase, perhaps someday growing to cover the somber line of newly turned mounds that lay here side by side, along the base of the high grey cliff.

"This was his name for me, you know," she said, nodding to the two slender little flowers that waved bravely in a delicate breeze. "Little flower."

"It was well given." His voice heavy with sympathy sounded behind her, and at last she turned.

"Mithrandir," she murmured softly, nodding a small greeting. "We meet at last." Her clothes were battered and dirty, and her hair hung long and unbound about her, stringy with dirt and orc blood. But Gandalf hardly seemed to notice as he studied her face with wise, sorrowful eyes.

"I would that it could have been at a happier time, Lothirien, my dear." He murmured, striding near, and settling himself tiredly upon a ragged stone beside where Lothirien dejectedly sat upon the ground.

"I saw you." She muttered, lowering her eyes to her hands. "Briefly while you were in the Golden Wood. I suppose I could have met you then. We could have spoken. I am sorry."

"Do not be sorry, my dear." Gandalf sighed. "You were soon to be married. You had other things on your mind. You were in love."

"I still am." She whispered.

"And you always will be." Gandalf added with a gentle nod.

"This pain will not decrease." She said softly. "I will not recover."

"I suppose not." Gandalf sighed softly.

"But you have come to tell me that I must return to the Golden Wood." She glanced up at him, and studied his deep, wise eyes.

"Your kinsmen Rumil and Orophin are very concerned for you. They mean to take you home."

"All I want to do, is to lay down and die beside him." She whispered, catching a choke in her throat.

Gandalf drew in a long deep breath, and sighed, "But you must think of your son, my dear."

Lothirien's back grew stiff at his words, and her eyes dropped to her flat, narrow stomach as if she expected to see some sign of what she thought only she had suspected.

"A son?" She whispered, her voice barely audible. She glanced again at Gandalf. "A baby?"

Gandalf smiled warmly at these words, and reached out to place a warm, weathered hand against her cheek where the scar was already beginning to fade. "Haldir's son." His brows twitched in compassion at the pain that crossed Lothirien's face at the mention of her lover's name. "Would he not want you to endure? For your child's sake as well as your own?"

Lothirien sighed jaggedly at this, but could bring herself to say nothing for a long moment. "Then I will live. For the baby's sake but not mine." She glanced sadly away from Gandalf's compassionate eyes. "When he is delivered of me, then I will return here, and lay down beside my love. And I will never rise again."

Gandalf's face twitched with pain as she said this. But he said nothing, and instead, he stood, offering her an outstretched hand, which she took, and rose as well.

Lothirien leaned heavily upon his arm as they walked in silence toward the others; the Elves of Imladris and of Lothlórien their numbers much smaller than when they had marched into the fortress, stood at attention further down the ravine. But Rumil stood near, beside Hasufel who was already saddled.

The king sat mounted high upon his steed, his bearing proud and kingly, though his eyes watched Lothirien with a soft, humble compassion that only served to cause tears to rise in her eyes. His nephew Éomer, and his servant Gamling were mounted beside him with Aragorn, Legolas and the Dwarf Gimli nearby, seated upon their horses as well, with Shadowfax standing near, waiting for Gandalf to mount his unsaddled back.

"Up you go." Gandalf urged her, his hand ever within hers as, without argument, she climbed upon Hasufel's back, and touched a hand to his warm, brown neck. A gift he was to her, from the Rohirrim. Perhaps she could use him again, she thought to herself, when she returned here. He would go free then, she promised him in her mind, for she would have no more use for him after that.

The grass waved beneath Hasufel's striding feet as she rode slowly beside Aragorn out of the ravine and up a grassy knoll. She had little to do for herself, for Rumil walked beside her, guiding Hasufel by the reins, and she felt like a child, helpless. But then perhaps, she was. Her heart was in tatters, her will to live existing only because of the child she knew now grew within her.

Upon the crest of the knoll, the others stopped, though Hasufel continued. Yet still, she glanced back at them as she continued north, and Aragorn and the others turned to face away eastward toward the distant, thundering glow of angry red against the low bellies of the clouds that blanketed the horizon.

"Sauron's wrath will be terrible. His retribution swift." Gandalf's words, though in the common tongue, came to her ears clear in their meaning, and gravity.

"The battle for Helm's Deep is over. The battle for Middle Earth is about to begin." As Lothirien drew even farther away, she watched as Gandalf and Aragorn traded a weighty glance. "All our hopes now lie with two little Hobbits somewhere in the wilderness."

Lothirien turned forward. He spoke of Frodo the little Ringbearer, and his companion, Sam. Their journey continued, scarce of hope, no doubt, and wearisome. Yet hope, what little there was, did remain for the Ringbearer and his ever faithful friend. While for her, hope except for what lay within her child, was forever gone.

**Lalaith Elerrina-Daughter of Valinor - Chapter 21**

**November 13, 2003**  
_Submitted By Lalaith-Elerrina_

Chapter 21

Lalaith felt air about her.

Bright cold air, and she opened her mouth to draw in a gasping breath, only to find that she felt no need for breath. For one who had been submerged as long as she had, she did not feel the hunger for air that she had expected.

Her eyes burst open, and she glanced quickly around for some sign of Pippin. Or Merry and Treebeard. But she saw nothing familiar at all.

Nothing of her surroundings looked at all like the ring of Isengard, or even of the nearby country side.

She stood in a vast, twilit landscape, void of grass, or trees upon the edge of a rocky bluff overlooking a great, blue body of water. _The sea,_ she realized. Above her, the sky wheeled with stars, night and day flashing by in alternating striations of light and shadow, each taking less than an instant to pass.

How very strange it seemed to her, yet expected, and she felt oddly unsurprised as she felt herself lifted, as if by a great wind, and found herself flying with speed she had never imagined before, out across the ocean. Land disappeared quickly behind her and stars wheeled all about her now, as she flew through them, toward a great mist, which flew at her with dizzying swiftness, closing suddenly about her, and as quickly as she entered, she was through, finding herself now above a sparkling sea down toward which she flew. For a long moment, all she could see was the ocean, and the sky above her, until within the distance, an immeasurable sheet of land appeared, stretching from horizon to horizon. A palace, more vast than any building she could ever have imagined, rose up upon the land, its walls rising like great white cliffs stretching off into the unseeable distance, up and down the coastline as its towers and turrets, its great arching domes and roofs as vast as an unending landscape, stretched off before her to the horizon.

Lalaith, her mind numb, unable to comprehend what this could mean, found herself slowing as she floated weightlessly downward, nearing a high arching gateway within the white cliffs of the walls, white pearlescent gates set within the archway. Steps of white stone drew down before it, great white pillars marching along beside the steps, almost to the edge of the water.

Two figures waited before the doors, a man and a woman, and seemed to Lalaith's relief, to be vaguely familiar. And as she alighted on the bottom most step, the two began to descend the stairway toward her. The woman had dark hair black as jet, flowing long and unbound to her waist, and was clothed in a gown of somber, unadorned brown, but it shone with bright, hopeful brilliance, giving her no need for further adornments. Her male escort, his hair dark as hers was, was arrayed in a dark blue robe as brilliant as the woman's. They appeared both as if they were Elves, but their countenances were so much brighter, that Lalaith quickly guessed that she was in the presence of two of the Valar. Was she having another vision? What could this mean?

Dropping her head in obeisance as the two drew closer, she realized suddenly, that she was adorned as they, though her gown was white, almost blinding.

"Young one, thou hast no need to bow to us." The man said in a kindly voice as he and the woman drew near and stopped.

At his words, she lifted her eyes, and as her eyes met his, he smiled a welcome, though sad smile. She recognized them now, and a breath caught in her throat as she wondered what their appearance meant. The woman smiled as well, though through eyes that shone with sorrow for the pain of all of Arda.

"My Lady, Nienna." Lalaith breathed with a gasp, again bowing her head. "My lord, Namo-, Mandos."

The two brilliant Valar bowed their heads to her, before the woman lifted her eyes and spoke.

"It has been far too long, my child." Nienna's voice was clear and somber, mournful as well, though there was a hint of gladness beneath her ever sad tones. She came down the steps, and took one of Lalaith's hands within hers as her other went beneath Lalaith's chin, and lifted her face up. Her touch felt like cool fire. And her dark eyes, deep with endless sorrow, shone also with courage and compassion as they gazed into Lalaith's. "Thou hast grown as beautiful as thy mother. The years have treated thee graciously."

"Thank you, my lady." Lalaith murmured.

"Doest thou know where thou art, young one?" Namo asked softly, the smile that was once in his eyes fading to a somber look.

"The Halls of Mandos." Lalaith breathed, gazing at the look that passed between the two Valar. "Have I been given to see another vision?"

Namo whose task was to be the caretaker of the Firstborn who died in battle, or from the weariness of their hearts, looked upon the young maiden with sympathy growing in his eyes. And slowly the realization of what had happened to her, came to rest slowly upon her mind.

Lalaith's eyes fell away, unable to endure the pained gaze of the Doomsman of the Valar. Death had always seemed a strange thing to her, little had she thought of it, being immortal, but when she had, it had seemed as a strange, evil, unnatural thing. Before she had gazed into Lady Galadriel's Mirror, she had known little of Lord Mandos, and cared to learn little, save that he was the keeper of the Houses of the Dead, the summoner of the spirits of the slain, and that he dwelt in Mandos, which was westward in Valinor. As a child, she had pictured him as a sinister, greedy being, eager for the deaths of Elves, so that he might gather to himself more subjects. How wrong she was, she realized now, as she lifted her eyes and gazed once again into his fair, kindly face.

"Am I-, _dead_?" She asked in a choking gasp of disbelief. "What of the Hobbit, Pippin? Has he died? Has his spirit flown to dwell beyond the stars?"

"I cannot tell thee." Namo said in a voice that spoke of regret. His brow knitted painfully, understanding the pain he was causing her by telling her these words. "Not yet."

Lalaith gulped hard, and dropped her eyes away again, ever conscious of Nienna's comforting arm about her shoulders. "But what of my beloved?" The numb shock she had felt at the first, was slowly giving way to grief and panic, realizing all that she had so suddenly left behind her, unfinished. "If I am gone, what shall become of him? Will he die as well, or will he be strong enough to endure without me?"

"Dear little one." Nienna murmured quietly. The sadness that was deep within the Valië's soothing voice brought a measure of comfort to Lalaith, and much of her fear was calmed in Nienna's gentle words.

"Wilt thou come now, with us?" Namo asked slowly, holding out a proffered hand, and gesturing toward the high arched doors of polished pearl.

"No." Lalaith whispered pleadingly. "I want to return. To my friends. To my love."

"Doest thou trust us?" Nienna asked softly, her arm slipping from the Elf maiden's shoulders to grasp her hand.

"Yes." She answered in a timid voice. "But I do not want this. I do not want what should be."

"How doest thou yet know what should be?" Nienna urged rising up a step, and slowly guiding Lalaith forward.

Through the grief and mourning that rested ever within Nienna's eyes, a ray of gentle hope shone through, glowing upon Lalaith like a warm ray of glad sunlight peering hopefully through the somber covering of a forest's canopy. And Lalaith found herself allowing the Valië to lead her upward, toward Namo, where the Lord of the Dead took her other hand, and between them, they led her carefully as if she were a small child, up the long white steps toward the great doors, which, with a mere touch of Namo's hand, swung silently open.

As the door drew wide, a vast, golden hall opened to her view, wide as the vale of Imladris itself. The stone beneath her feet was tiled with great blocks of polished marble. Great tapestries of gold and silver, woven with bright images of great battles, and quests, as well as the simple tasks of daily Elvish life, hung between high pillars, floating softly in a gentle breeze that wafted through the vast high arching hall. Before her, beyond the arching domes of several marching pillars, sunlight streamed through a great opening in the high ceiling above a courtyard wide and vast, its opposite edge barely visible in the distance. Tall trees much like Mallyrn in appearance, grew here, their branches arching upward toward the golden sunlight streaming through. And to her right and left, vast corridors stretched away into the shimmering vastness of the Hall.

Not far away, beyond the curve of a pillar, and nearer to the courtyard than where she stood, the soft, steady rhythmic clatter of a loom found its way to Lalaith's ears. And toward this sound, Namo and Nienna led her, another of the Valië soon coming into view round the curve of a wide pillar.

Her visage was as bright as the first two, her raiment shining as if it were silver as she sat before a loom fashioned of pearl and gold. Her own silver white hair had been twined into many braids as it lay long against her back. She was Vairë, Namo's wife, and the weaver of the airy web-like tapestries that lined the many vast corridors that made up these the Halls of Mandos.

Her skillful hands moved rhythmically, passing a burnished silver shuttle back and forth through the threads upon her loom, drawing a thread through that gleamed silver, now, gold, and again crimson, then black, the colors changing as an image slowly appeared within the cloth of her weaving. The gauzy image forming upon the loom, Lalaith realized, was a picture of a battle, orcs laying siege to the very fortress she had seen in her mind where Legolas and the others had taken refuge. But the orcs were being driven back, defeated, by a figure who seemed to be Gandalf, though this figure was clad in a bright, white robe, and mounted upon a white, cream colored steed, with many countless horsemen at his back.

Lalaith allowed her eyes to drift away from the work upon the Valië's loom to a young boy who sat near her shoulder. The two were conversing softly as Vairë worked, and for a moment, Lalaith wondered perhaps, if he were Vairë's son, the offspring of Valar, as Lalaith was.

But she quickly realized that this was not so, for when the child addressed Vairë, he called her _My lady_, and spoke in the common tongue of Arda as one of the Race of Men might, and with far more formality than even a dutiful son would when addressing his own mother. In fact, the child's manners were as impeccable as a grown man's.

Sad, Lalaith thought to herself, for if the boy was not the son of Namo and Vairë, then somehow a child had been slain, somewhere. A tragedy, Lalaith thought sadly, for his grieving parents, wherever they might be, for the boy could not have even been a half century old.

"Vairë, my love." Namo's voice gently penetrated the soft clatter of the loom, and at his call, the motion of her hands, and the soft rhythmic clatter of her loom, ceased.

Vairë turned toward her husband with a smile of greeting, the boy turning as well, his eyes lighting with a mixture of surprise and shyness upon Lalaith. Still, he leaped to his feet, as Vairë stood, and followed a half step behind her as she came forward to greet the three.

"How beautiful thou hast become, young Elerrina." Vairë greeted, extending both her hands in welcome, and catching up Lalaith's hands in her own as she drew close. "Like thy mother. Thou art also called Lalaith now, yes?" She smiled at the maiden's slow, reluctant nod, for in spite of the Valië's kindly welcome, Lalaith did not wish to be here. She wanted to go home with a desire so desperate, that her heart ached painfully in her chest, eased only slightly by the gentle touch of Nienna's hand at her shoulder.

Lalaith's eyes darted now to the boy's. He smiled shyly as her gaze rested on him. Somehow, he seemed familiar, but she could not understand how. His hair was a golden brown color, like warm polished wood, rare for an Elf. There were a few Elf children with whom she was acquainted, but this boy was none of them. Still, somehow, he seemed to know her.

"You do not recognize me, do you?" The boy asked quietly, in the tongue of the Men of Gondor, his voice shy as he took a timid step toward her.

"Forgive me." Lalaith said, with a penitent smile, and a shake of her head.

The boy sighed, a hand self consciously rising to tweak the pointed peak of his ear, and then run along the line of his smooth jaw as if both qualities of his face were new and unfamiliar to him. And then the realization struck her suddenly, and she gaped, "_Boromir_?"

At the name, the boy's flush deepening.

"But you're only a child!" Lalaith gasped.

"This is how I would appear, had I been born an Elf instead of a Man." He explained softly.

A small breath escaped her as she looked upon him, at last recognizing his features, now more youthful and finely drawn, and the tragedy of his death settle more heavily upon her.

"Oh, Boromir." She muttered softly, and at the softened tones of her voice, the boy's mouth twitched. "You _were_ only a child."

"But I do not regret what I did, Lalaith." The boy said, his voice and face a child's, though the look within his young eyes reminded her of the Boromir she had known, the Man who had confessed to her that he loved her, in spite of the knowledge that it would eventually kill him. "And in truth, I am not the one who deserves your mourning. I was only the first of many-," here his words trailed away.

At her shoulder, Namo spoke somberly, taking up where the boy had left off. "The battle that my lady weaves upon her loom has been won, only at great cost." His eyes resting upon the lad, he spoke, his voice ringing clearly in the common tongue of Arda, "Lord Boromir, will you show her?"

"Yes, my lord." The lad nodded, though reluctant, and reached out for Lalaith's hand, which she gave readily to him as he led her toward the bright courtyard, away from the three Valar who followed behind but at a distance.

"There were Elves at Helm's Deep, Lalaith." The boy who was Boromir said in a low voice. "Elves from Rivendell. _And_ from Lothlórien." His words again faded away, though what he did not speak, Lalaith guessed.

She sighed, hearing the heavy tone in her voice. The golden-green glow of sunlight through leaves grew brighter as they drew closer to the courtyard, and now, the welcome whisper of wind through trees met her ears, and even the cheerful calls of birds, songs she recognized from birds of both Lothlórien, and Imladris.

"Many of these Elves you knew," Boromir said softly, and in a voice that was almost inaudible, "and one-,"

"_Legolas_?" Lalaith cried suddenly, cutting him off, her heart leaping in her throat. "Legolas is here?" As much as she missed him, and hungered to see him again, she wished achingly that it would not be here where they would meet again.

"No." The boy said, a look of resignation flashing through his young eyes at the mention of her beloved's name. Glancing away and to the edge of the trees, he nodded.

They had reached the edge of the marble tiles, and stone steps led away, down to a winding earthen path that led off through the trees. From deep within the trees, Lalaith could hear faint music, and singing as well, but nearest to them, an Elf sat by himself upon a twisted tree root. And it was this figure toward whom the young Boromir nodded.

As she glanced at him, her heart sank. He was facing partly away from her, his eyes upon one of Vairë's tapestries. The gauzelike tapestry hung low, swaying gently between two of the pillars lining the courtyard. Upon it, were woven the images of three Elves, a man, a woman, and a small boy-child, upon his seated mother's lap.

"No. It cannot be." Lalaith breathed softly.

At the sound of her voice, the once proud march warden of Lothlórien turned, and his eyes, swollen from unashamed weeping met Lalaith's.

"My lady." He muttered, composing himself enough to turn toward her and drop to one knee, bowing his head.

"Haldir," Lalaith protested. "Do not bow to me! Do you not recognize me?"

"You are one of the Valiër." He muttered his head down.

"No, Haldir, it is me! Lalaith!"

His head shot up, surprise now intermixed with the abject grief written upon his features. He slowly stood.

"Lalaith?" He eyed her glowing form, more bright even, than Namo or Vairë, or Nienna, and slowly, he shook his head. "I don't understand. Why is it that you bear the glory of the Valar?"

"Elbereth is my mother. And Manwë my father." She said softly. "I discovered it when I looked into the Lady's Mirror when last I was in the Golden Wood. And I did not tell you or Lothirien, for I did not wish you to think differently of me-, as Legolas did at first."

"Have you the power to pass back and forth freely between Arda and Valinor, then?" He queried.

"I have not before now. I-," she faltered, the words feeling strange and heavy on her tongue as she spoke them, "I believe I am dead."

"You have come as well, then." He said, in a low, resigned voice, and slowly sat again, upon the curving trunk. "Never to return back across the sea." He shook his head, and lowered his eyes, eyes that were swollen with misery. "Legolas had thought you safe." Lalaith's heart wrenched at the desolate tone in his words. And tears sprung to her eyes as he continued, his words all the more bitter, "Your loss will tear all reason from his mind, and all joy out of his heart, Lalaith. If it does not kill him as well."

"Haldir-," Lalaith gasped, a ragged sob catching in her throat.

"Lothirien watched me die, Lalaith." Haldir blurted, a wretched agonized gasp tearing painfully from him. "She was there upon the wall with me. She held me until the last."

The dark look of hopelessness in his eyes filled Lalaith with a sense of Haldir's misery, thick and impenetrable. Gnawing her lip, she went to him, and sat beside him. The boy Boromir seated himself upon a stone, a fair distance from the older Elves, watching them through sad silent eyes, thoughts of his own unfinished work, and abandoned loved ones trailing through his head.

Tentatively, Lalaith reached out, and place a hand gently upon Haldir's arm, wanting to give him peace. But at her touch, Haldir broke at last, and began to sob heavily, crushing his head into his hands. "I promised her we would return to the Golden Wood together. And now, that promise will not find fulfillment! I have broken my vow! I have destroyed her!" He sobbed as the maiden watched him through eyes heavy with her own misery. How terrible a thing it was, to watch one who had always been so strong and stalwart in her eyes, to break and crumble as completely as Haldir was breaking now.

"My young one?"

Lalaith looked up, almost startled to see Lord Namo, Vairë beside him, with Nienna standing behind the pair. She had heard no one approaching.

"It is time." Namo said gently.

"Time, my lord?" Lalaith asked, glancing up toward the three Valar.

"For thee to return."

Lalaith's heart caught on a beat, and she lunged to her feet. She gasped, as hope, unlooked for leaped in her heart. "To return to Arda? Am I to go back?"

"Indeed." Namo smiled. "Thy friends are calling thee back. Life still lingers in thy earthly form."

Lalaith glanced brightly at Haldir, who lifted his swollen eyes, and gave her a half hearted smile of sorrow. His own grief quickly stifled her sudden joy.

"My lord-," She stepped away from Haldir and drew nearer to Namo and the two Valiër.

"Lord Mandos," she pled in a low voice, "my mother-," she hesitated, but at Namo's encouraging glance, she continued. "My mother once told me that there was little I could ask for that I would be denied, if only it-,"

"If it were the will of Ilúvatar." Namo finished for her with a gentle nod.

"You have a boon to ask of my brother, do you not?" Nienna asked, her voice weighted with sorrow, yet ever courageous and strong floated like a gentle sigh to Lalaith's ears.

"I do." Lalaith admitted. She glanced over her shoulder at Haldir, broken and weak with grief where he sat, watching the exchange between Lalaith and the Valar with swollen eyes. "Though I hesitate to ask. I do not know if it be Ilúvatar's will, or no-,"

She paused and a long heavy silence passed, broken at last by Vairë's gentle encouragement. "Shall you ever know if you do not ask it?


	29. Chapter 29

**November 14, 2003**

_Submitted By Lalaith-Elerrina_

Chapter 12

A figure, cloaked and hooded, made his way through the trees of Caras Galadhon. He had come unchallenged through the trees of Lothlórien, for he had made himself known to none of the guards, and even to their elven eyes, his passing had appeared as nothing more than a stirring of the leaves, and a brush of wind moving through the trees.

He glanced upward at the shining lights of the city set within the graceful branches of the trees he loved so well. The time would come when he would present himself before the Lord and Lady, and though decorum demanded that it be the first thing he do upon returning, he shook his head to himself, and cast decorum to the winds. His thought was bent upon only one other, now.

His eyes, remembering their old skill, found the small, rarely used path, and noted the soft imprints of her slender, bare feet. Turning upon the path, he followed where it led, until the well remembered tones of the clattering waterfall came to his ears, and he saw her at last, seated upon the ground. Her face was turned from him, her loom with the tapestry upon it, set before her. It had progressed much further than it had when he had seen it last, and the colors woven into the three figures upon it, fairly glowed. The child upon his mother's lap seemed to peer out of the tapestry with soulful curiosity. Her hands worked as skillfully as he remembered, though they trembled slightly now, and she would pause occasionally to place a hand to her face and stifle her gentle though unceasing weeping. Though she faced away from him, her body was turned slightly from her tapestry, the smooth curves of her slender, youthful body pleasantly outlined beneath the thin white gown that she wore. It was not yet apparent that she was with child, though he knew that she was.

Drawing in a deep breath, he stepped forward.

"My lady?"

…

Lothirien straightened at the sound of the voice behind her. She had not expected to be discovered here. She had come here to be alone. None but she and Haldir had ever come to this place.

"My lord." She said, pausing in her work and dropping her eyes, making no effort to turn and greet the stranger. The Elf who stood behind her carried a soothing presence about him that felt painfully familiar, warming the quiet glade as only one other could for her.

"It is a beautiful tapestry you weave."

"Thank you, my lord." She sighed again to her hands.

"It is yourself and your husband and..." The stranger trailed off.

"And our son." Lothirien finished for him.

"A son." He echoed, his voice growing soft and wistful. "He is a beautiful child."

"He is yet unborn. But this will be as he will appear when he comes to me." Lothirien whispered softly, and continued, "This tapestry I weave to keep the broken shards of my heart intact until I can deliver him to this world."

There was nothing but silence behind her, and Lothirien sensed that the stranger was waiting for her to continue.

"My husband fell at Helm's Deep, defending the people of Rohan." She pursed her lips tightly, the pain slicing through her again, as painfully as it had when she held her beloved, when the light had faded from his eyes, and she knew he was dead.

"I am sorry for the pain you have felt these past days." The stranger murmured behind her, his voice choking with soft grief himself.

"The pain I feel is no more hallowed in the eyes of the Valar than the grief felt by any other woman of these woods who lost a lover that day." Lothirien sighed to her hands, closing her eyes and bowing her head.

"But for your part, the grief you feel, is at once both sweet and bitter, different from that which is felt by many others."

Lothirien half turned, seeing out of the corner of her eye, the figure of an Elf, a hooded cloak draped about his broad shoulders, and over his head hiding his face. "What do you mean?" She wondered quietly.

"You were there, my lady. At Helm's Deep. You held him when he drew his last breath."

Lothirien's shoulders sagged, and she bowed her head dejectedly. This man must have been one of the survivors of the battle. He must have seen it happen. Only a few days before it had been when their company had returned, but ages it seemed to her. Ages of torture, and hopeless, empty grief. She went through the motions of her life, though as one already dead. She ate and slept and lived, not for herself, but for her baby whose presence she could feel within her, a soft little ball of life, though there would not be any visible sign for many more months.

"I should not have gone." She whispered. "I was a fool. I went, wanting to give him aid. But I only caused him to worry for me. It was out of fear for me that he did not watch his own safety as he should have. It is because of me that he is dead." Lothirien sighed sadly as the stranger moved a step closer to her. "_My_ fault!" Not caring that she wept in front of a stranger, she bowed her head and began to sob. "But I loved him, my lord."

She caught her breath, fighting to speak. "How I loved him. More than my own life. If I could have, I would have died in his place! At the least, I would have died beside him. But I was not even allowed that."

"My lady, Lothirien. Do not despair. The fault is not yours." The hooded stranger said soothingly, his voice cracking with a wretched pain of his own. "Your beloved does not regret that you followed him to the battle. For then he was given the chance to repair the injury he had done to you. He spoke many words he regretted before he parted from you here in the Golden Wood. Yet at Helm's Deep, in the armory, and again upon the parapet of the wall, he was able to speak again of his love for you." For a moment, the Elf paused, and a wistful smile entered his voice. "He did not feel the pain of his wounds, my lady. He felt only the comfort of your gentle touch, and heard the music of your voice as you spoke again of your unending love for him. His love for you is as yours for him. Unending. Even, as you said upon your wedding day, beyond death."

Lothirien choked between her sobs, wondering how this man could know so much. Lothirien paused, and took a deep breath, staring hard at the tapestry before her. The stranger's voice was so soothing. So melodic. So like-,

Drawing in a breath, she closed her eyes, and listened to the music of his words as he continued. "He shares with you a love that exists beyond the borders of this world. One that is greater than can be spoken in any of the tongues of the children of Ilúvatar. Great enough, than even Mandos himself cannot part you long."

"I know that is true." Lothirien nodded, her voice soft, her eyes still closed, for she did not want to end the spell his gently flowing words had cast. "I live now for nothing else but to give my son life, and then I will give him to the care of the Lady Galadriel, and leave these woods. I will travel to the Lands of Men, to Rohan, and the fortress at Helm's Deep where my love died, and there, I will make my grave."

"He does not wish for you to die, my lady." The hooded figure murmured, softly but insistently. His voice was filled with emotion, bringing wetness to Lothirien's eyes. "He has missed you. Every moment parted from you has been as an eternity of torture for him. He longs to be with you again, to fill his senses with you. You were torn apart too soon, my lady. But joining him in death is not the answer."

"Is it so surprising, my lord?" Lothirien asked sadly, opening her eyes. This man's voice was so very familiar, but he could not be whom she wished for him to be, for he was gone. There could be no returning from the Halls of Mandos. "I love him. I cannot live without him, so I will join him." Lothirien choked on yet another sob and rose quickly to her feet, turning, and barely glancing at the hooded stranger as she moved to brush past him. "Forgive my rudeness, my lord, but I must go."

"There is no need for you to go to him." The stranger insisted, reaching out and catching her hand as she moved past him, gently drawing her to a stop.

At this, Lothirien's head straightened suddenly, and she turned, looking upon this strange figure fully, for the first time. She could see little more of his face than his firm jaw, and his perfect, expressive mouth. His golden hair flowed from beneath his hood, shining as if with its own light. And to Lothirien, it appeared that a white light was shining through his form and raiment as if through a thin veil.

"My lord?" She asked, her words barely more than a whisper.

"You need not go to him, for with the blessings of the Valar, and by the will of Ilúvatar, he has returned to you."

The Elf now, with a trembling hand, reached up and threw back his hood. Lothirien drew in a sharp breath.

She caught a soft sob in her throat, as she pulled her hand away and lowered her head, dropping to her knees before him. His countenance was bright, and the aura of his being was as the sun itself. And he carried an air about him as it were the glory of the Valar. But his face-, his gentle eyes, the timid almost boyish smile upon his perfect lips-, she knew that what she saw could not be even as her heart pounded painfully within her. He was dead. She had watched him die. She had heard his parting words of love, had felt his last breath, warm upon her cheek. She had seen the light fade in his eyes, and as orcs swarmed the walls Aragorn had dragged her back to the Keep as she wept and begged him to let her die beside her lover. And again she had wept as the earth had covered his still form. She dared to lift her eyes briefly, wondering if she would see nothing, and realize that it had been but a wishful dream.

Yet still he stood before her. The light of Valinor was about him, though his countenance was not one of stately, unfeeling calm. His hands hung heavily at his sides, opening and closing. The cloth of his linen tunic thinly disguised his firm, muscled chest, which rose and fell heavily with unchecked emotion, his warm eyes gazing down upon her with painful longing.

Again she dropped her eyes and whispered his name, letting the word roll deliciously over her tongue. Then she took command of her voice. "Haldir?" She managed to whisper, hardly daring to hope.

"Oh, Lothirien." He choked, and dropped to his knees before her, and in doing this, he cast her mind back to the day she had come here, her heart grieving, for she believed that he did not love her. She had come to be alone, but he had followed her. And when he had told her of how he had learned of her true feelings for him, she had despaired. In shame, certain that he was angry with her for loving him, she had tried to flee, but he had caught her hands, imploring her to stay. She had fallen to her knees, and he had lowered himself to his knees as well to look into her eyes, just as he was doing again. This was the very spot where he had held her, and confessed his love for her, and they had shared their first kiss.

"Lothirien." Haldir breathed, one hand rising to cup her cheek, where her scar had faded to naught but a faint line. As his warm flesh touched her, the light that exuded from his skin reached out and enveloped her, warming her heart, and soothing her wounded soul like a soft beam of sunlight. "My little flower. Have I changed so much? Do not bow to me."

A warm shock raced through her, and tears started instantly to her eyes. Without further hesitation, she flung herself, sobbing, into his arms.

She felt his arms circle around her and pull her tightly against him, his warmth permeating into her. With her face against his chest, she could hear his heart pounding, and felt the heat of him against her cheek. The touch of him was fulfilling and real, unlike the vague, faint shadows of dreams that had tormented her at night, only to disappear when she awoke. This time, there would be no waking, and no loss. For a long moment, Haldir said nothing as they held each other, but stroked her hair, sending pleasant shivers along her skin. At last she felt him bend his head, and bury his face in her hair, and then she felt him shaking, and heard his soft sobs. He was crying, holding her as if he needed to know of the reality of her as much as she needed his touch to assure herself of his.

"Haldir." She breathed, as she reached up, touching her fingers against his smooth cheek. "You've come back. Like Lord Glorfindel, of Rivendell."

"Yes," he said, a smile touching his lips, humor lacing his voice. "I have."

He had changed much, yet he seemed to be as he always had been. A new light shone in his eyes, giving him an air of great wisdom as if he possessed the knowledge of the ages yet the same smile she remembered turned at the corners of his mouth. The same warmth lit his face. "How?" she breathed.

Haldir caressed her brow and her cheek. "By the grace of the Valar." He smiled.

Her breath quickened as Haldir's hands softly cupped her face, as he kissed her hair, and brushed his lips warmly over her brow and her cheek. And lastly, his lips touched her trembling mouth, famished for a taste of him, as his were, for her.

He gave no other explanation, but she needed none as his kiss deepened, growing more heated, more insistent and his arms tightened around her, gently, yet also with a subtle urgency. Questions remained unanswered in her mind, but she did not care. The answers would come when they would. All that she wanted, all that she hungered for now, was him, and as her senses became entwined with his, all else about her, faded. Already she had forgotten her grief, her loneliness, and the grim belief that the child growing beneath her heart would never know his father. All of the pain fled, as insubstantial now, as the memory of an unhappy dream flees in the light of morning.

In the background, the gentle clatter of the waterfall murmured on unchanging, and somewhere off in the forest, a bird began a sprightly, joyful song. But Haldir and Lothirien, discovering each other anew, barely heard.


	30. Chapter 30

**Lalaith Elerrina-Daughter of Valinor - Chapter 22**

**November 14, 2003**

_Submitted By Lalaith-Elerrina_

Chapter 22

"Lalaith! Hold on!" Pippin, his strength almost spent, shouted out over the roar of the flood pouring in a thunderous crash down into the gouged earth like a waterfall, hardly more than a few paces further than the ragged boulder thrusting above the flood where Pippin's one free hand had caught a providential handhold within a ragged crack in the stone. The wedge shaped boulder as high as a Hobbit hill, thrust up out of the water, its pointed edge splitting the torrential flood that crashed and hissed in protest as it was flung one way and the other around the ragged point of the boulder, only to collect almost calmly on the blunt side away from the force of the torrent where the boulder's flat surface dipped down into the water, giving the exhausted, waterlogged Hobbit a chance to scramble weakly up onto its slick, sloping surface.

And then he turned, wrenching up on the back of Lalaith's soaked Elvish cloak and the nape of her jerkin, struggling to yank her out of the flood her grip upon his wrist almost pinchingly tight, though she was clearly oblivious to everything, her limp body rising above the flood only to fall beneath it again like a shred of flag in a swift wind. She was pale, as pale as death, and she hung heavily, dragging at him, but Pippin didn't care. If she had not had such a tight grip on him, they would probably both have fallen over the edge of the precipice and been battered to death by the falling water upon the jagged rocks in the cavern below.

"Come _on_, Lalaith!" Pippin ordered her as if she could hear him, and wrenched on her jerkin.

"It's a good _thing_ you aren't very _fat_." He muttered to himself, his words wrenching out of him with each tug as he slowly dragged her out of the rushing current and upon the slick tilting surface of the rock. "You're _heavy_ enough as it _is_." First her torso came as Pippin continued to pull her limp form up onto the rock, and then finally, her legs, all of her as soaked and dripping, as he was.

"There they are! There they are, I see them!" Merry's voice high and panicked, rose above the rush of the water, and Pippin glanced up for a moment to see through water bleared eyes a number of Ents, wading near, striding through the flood as easily as a Hobbit through a gurgling stream. Treebeard was at the head with Merry blanched white with fright, perched in his branches.

"Come on, Lalaith. Breathe!" Pippin shouted to make his voice heard above the rushing of the water, waving with one hand to the approaching Ents as he patted Lalaith's cheek with the other. "Come on, breathe! Don't die on me, now! You don't want to be leaving Legolas behind, now, do you?"

In answer, the unconscious maiden finally drew in a fierce, ragged breath.

Lalaith felt life in herself. She was cold and wet, and weak, a hard stone surface beneath her. Her lungs ached and pinched as she drew in air. Somewhere nearby, she could hear Pippin's voice, cheerful and calming, and could feel his small hand on her shoulder. Beyond him, growing closer, she could hear Treebeard's slow deep tones, with Merry's voice beside his, shouting something excitedly, though she could not hear anything any of them were saying.

What was all the excitement over? Oh, yes. Pippin had fallen into the flood. She had dived in after him. But what had happened after that, was a blank. She could remember nothing between then and now.

She was too weak to do anything more than breath now, but beneath her tunic, against her skin, she could feel the medallion Galadriel had given her for Legolas, and upon that, she focused her thoughts, seeking for some sign of him. Something hopeful. She could not remember why, but some forgotten memory seemed to sing through her mind, like the calming voices of the Valar, cheering her, and giving her hope.

Away her thoughts flew again, far beyond Isengard, beyond the forest of Fangorn and over the plains of Rohan to the high cliffs she remembered seeing before. The sun was rising over the ravine in which the great fortress stood where Legolas and the others had taken refuge. Great numbers of horsemen were there, crushing down, and cutting through the last ranks of orcs that had made battle against the walls of the fortress.

Gandalf was there, Lalaith saw, with a rush of joy. She had last seen him when he had fallen from the cracked bridge in Moria into the abyss. And yet, here he was alive, clad in white, the sun streaming from behind him as he and the mounted Rohirrim drove and crushed the scattering remnants of the orcs before them. The battle was won.

Lalaith searched desperately over the warriors of the battle, at last finding Legolas among the riders, weary and bloodied, but still alive, and she felt herself smile. How very becoming he looked in the armor of the Rohirrim, she thought to herself. And she saw another mounted Elf, as well, wielding a sword bloodied with orc bile, her long once golden hair streaked with dirt and blood. Lothirien? Could it be? But her eyes were grim, and grieving. Not sparking and bright as they had once been.

But before Lalaith could discern the cause of her friend's fierce grief, she found herself being pulled away again, and not of her own choice now, her thoughts flying far over the mountains toward the east where a great shadow dwelt, a city set upon the banks of the Great River, Osgiliath, she guessed, from what Elrond had taught her of the cities of Men. There, the forces of Mordor had taken the entire eastern side of the city, and were giving fierce battle to the Men entrenched stubbornly upon the western bank. A winged Nazgûl wheeled in the sky upon its wounded steed, pierced with an arrow. The city was broken, and as good as taken, but this, Lalaith guessed, was not what she had been brought here to see. Her guess was confirmed as the sight of her mind flew low over the city, and into a broken grotto of stone, to find Frodo and Sam huddled away from the fighting, frightened and weary, and a shriveled starving, nearly naked little creature with them. Gollum, Lalaith thought, her first reaction one of disgust until she saw the creature's bonds, and the fear in its eyes, and felt a strange twinge of pity for it.

Frodo sat upon the ground, his back pressed against the stone wall. His little sword Sting, lay beside him upon the ground as if he had just dropped it, and the One Ring lay against his shirt, visible to all, upon its chain. Sam was sitting up off the stone beneath him, as if he were recovering from a backward, tears making tracks through the dirt that caked his face.

"_I can't do this Sam_." Frodo muttered, his voice small and weak.

"_I know_." Sam moaned in a heavy tearful voice, sitting up. "_It's all wrong_." With effort, the stout, faithful little Hobbit rose weakly to his feet. "_By rights we shouldn't even be here._"

Sam staggered to a ragged archway in the torn, stone wall, his tearful eyes watching the retreat of the Nazgûl, and its wounded mount.

"_But we are_." He muttered in a small voice.

He took a breath, and a measure of strength came into his weakened voice. "_It's like in the great stories, Mr. Frodo_." He sighed, his voice ragged. "_The ones that really mattered. Full of darkness and danger they were. And sometimes you didn't want to know the end, because how could the end be happy? How could the world go back to the way it was when so much bad had happened? But in the end its only a passing thing, this shadow. Even darkness must pass. A new day will come. And when the sun shines, it will shine out the clearer. Those were the stories that stayed with you. That meant something. Even if you were too small to understand why. But I think Mr. Frodo, I do understand. I know now. Folk in those stories had lots of chances of turning back, only they didn't. They kept going because they were holding on to something_."

"_What are we holding on to, Sam_?" Came Frodo's soft weak voice where he sat beside the broken wall.

At this, Sam turned to him, a light gleaming in his brave little eyes through the tears. And he came to him, grasped him beneath his shoulder, and helped him rise to his feet.

"_That there's some good in this world, Mr. Frodo_." He answered plaintively. "_And it's worth fighting for_."

As Sam finished these words, the eyes of both Hobbits rose, for a Man, a bow in one hand, and the emblem of a white tree emblazoned upon his chest, approached, and dropped to one knee before Frodo.

So very like Boromir in appearance this Man was, that Lalaith found herself catching a choking gasp in her throat. There was no other thought in her mind, but that he had to be near kin.

His eyes were stern, yet there was kindness within them as he looked upon the Hobbits, and spoke in a voice of quiet strength, "_I think at last we understand one another, Frodo Baggins._"

Lalaith coughed, and opened her eyes, focusing them on a cheerful, smiling face above her head. "Pippin?" She groaned, sitting up, and glancing about. She was dripping wet. They both were, and perched upon a wide, flat boulder, surrounded by the roaring floodwaters that the Ents had released.

"Come back up here!" Merry scolded from above them, and she glanced up, blinking her eyes. Treebeard stood above them, with Merry perched in his branches. "You scared us nearly out of our wits!" Merry cried, though she could see that he had never been more glad than he was now.

"Here we go, now." Boomed Treebeard's sonorous voice. And with his long branching fingers, the Ent reached down and picked up the two, settling them once again, safely in his branches.

"You alright Lalaith? Pip?" Merry asked, gently now, no longer annoyed, the concern evident on his face and in his voice.

"I'm fine." Pippin chirped, settling back against one of Treebeard's branches and shaking out his dripping curls as casually as if he had simply walked in out of the rain.

Lalaith glanced down at her hands. "I think we're all doing fine. All of us." She said thoughtfully, still warm with the hope the vision that lingered in her mind had given her.

But a moment later, the warmth vanished. A cold chill, not from the cold of the water shot along her spine, and her eyes instinctively lifted to the high black tower that was Orthanc. Great hewn steps carved as if out of one solid stone, led upward to a high doorway, and higher above this, was a wide balcony through which Lalaith could see only darkness. Or could she? A fleeting glimpse of a face caught her eye as it disappeared back into the shadows, the face of a woman with long dark hair flowing about her, and a face that was exquisitely beautiful, yet at the same time filled with malice, stark and cold, and bitter, wretched hatred.

"At least for the moment." Lalaith added thoughtfully.

She dropped her eyes away from the balcony, suppressing a shudder to face the two Hobbits. And as her eyes found their cheerful faces grinning at her, full of glad relief, a hopeful smile at last curled up the corners of her lips.

Well, that's the end! But don't worry, more is coming in future stories.

Also, if you've enjoyed this, please check out my profile, and check Amazon or other online bookstores for my books, The Birthright, or The King's Heir by Loralee Evans


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